


Elegance and Grace: The Royal Courtesans of the House of Acheron

by rev02a



Series: The Blessings of Béḃinn [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Courtesans, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fairy Tale Retellings, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love at First Sight, M/M, Other, Past Child Abuse, Reunions, Sex, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 102,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: Lucifer, the bastard cousin of the Prince Regent Gabriel, is Lord of a Companion House in a Southern District. He has trained a mismatched group of talented companions. They're not the rich and cosmopolitan courtesans of the capital, but still connected enough to present Crowley to the youngest prince as a potential consort.If the goddess of courtesans blesses them, the trip may lead to love and stability for two of the companions from the House of Acheron.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Series: The Blessings of Béḃinn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932250
Comments: 250
Kudos: 137





	1. A Break from Routine

**Author's Note:**

> I am world-building here, so forgive me. This is a past time setting but in a multicultural world. The idea of courtesans is universal, but the word "oiran" is Japanese. Even still, the companions eat Mexican food, drink British tea, pray to a Celtic goddess, and wear French and Indian fashions.

Beelze spends their evening at the local teahouse. They sing and play for the general room. They’re not seeking out a patron. This is a goodwill gesture to keep up friendly relations between their Companion House and the teahouse.After all, Beelze was once favored by the royal court. They have class and any place in their District benefits from even brushing with something posh—even from the forty-something, discarded companion of the Prince Regent.

They call for the House’s carriage as the sun breaks the horizon. It’s a smooth ride to collect Ligur and Crowley. They curl up on the seat so that their silk smoking jacket covers their feet and try to nap. The horses slow as they draw close to the designated rendezvous point. They sit up and rub at their eyes.

Somewhere beyond the carriage doors, there is boisterous laughter. The past week has been on-site work for Ligur and Crowley. They’ve been in the service of a rich debutante and her boyfriend at their lake-side villa. Beelze wonders if either of the patrons is head-over-heels in love with one (or both) of the companions yet. It never fails to happen with these long engagements.

The door opens and Beelze glances out into the gray light. Ligur is locked in an amorous kiss with the boyfriend, whose hands are wandering into Ligur’s robe. Closer to the carriage, the debutant shoves her hands into the back of Crowley’s tight trousers and squeezes.

“It is with the blessings of Béḃinn that we leave you and our time together,” Crowley exclaims and pulls his sunglasses from their perch on his head and onto his nose. He kisses the debutant fully and passionately on the mouth. She clings to him as he removes himself from her arms and bows low to them both. Ligur is slower to remove himself from the boyfriend, apparently enjoying the hand job.

“May the blessings of Béḃinn be bountiful as we leave our time with you,” he finally husks blissfully. He bows and giggles.

Crowley bounces on his toes, waiting for the elder companion to enter the carriage first. Then he flings himself in and drops with a sprawl onto the seat next to Beelze. He snuggles up to them. Crowley is jittery and talkative as the carriage pulls away from the villa.

“Bee, I think I licked all my tastebuds off. I sprained my tongue on pussy,” he grins, all chatter and confidence that screams cocaine. He burrows his face into their side like a cat. “You smell like lemon drops.”

Ligur pulls at his robe and fans himself, “More like marzipan. Jesus, I’m fucked out. I think my arsehole caved in.”

And they both giggle the wild laughter of the over-sexed and drugged courtesan. Beelze suffers through it all—the tittering, the snuggling, and the rambunctious kicking war the two get into across the carriage. It’s a thirty-minute ride to the House of Acheron and Beelze feels every second of it.

“I want tacos,” Ligur declares as they pull up to their House.

“Bless it,” Beelze growls and jumps out the door the second they stop. “Get out, you fuckers.”

Ligur struts out like a drunk peacock. He’s cocky when he’s fucked up. Crowley, on the other hand, loses all his graces and acts like a drunk toddler. He nearly falls out the door with a wild yell. His dark lenses are askew and he gives a shark-like grin.

“Beelze! Let’s go swimming!” he exclaims and jumps out of the carriage. The horses toss their heads until their harnesses jingle. Crowley is distracted by this and wanders up to stroke the nearest horse’s neck and whisper into its ear.

Ligur grabs the bars of the gate and shakes it until it rattles. “I’m home, bitches! Lemme in!”

Beelze gives a long-suffering sigh and grabs Crowley by the arm. He follows them willingly but is still cooing at the horse.

“Crowley, shut the fuck up, you’re going to wake the neighborhood. Jesus, Ligur, turn the fucking knob,” they growl before shoving past Ligur and opening the gate.

They go first, pausing only to press a kiss to their two fingers and then brush these across the rowan-hewed sigil nailed into the doorframe. Ligur and Crowley follow suit before letting the gate clang shut behind them.

Beelze dreams of their bed, but Béḃinn is a jealous goddess. They lead the other two into the tree-circled courtyard and to their small wooden altar. Beelze bows low kisses their two fingers, then touches the fly sigil at their temple, to finally kneels before Béḃinn’s shrine. They offer a tired, but grateful prayer to the goddess of the courtesan—they’re all home safe. Then they stretch up to a bow and offer another two-fingered kiss to their sigil. They watch Ligur and Crowley follow a similar routine.

Their prayers seem to pull the cocaine and alcohol’s hold from them. Ligur mutters something about finding food. Crowley offers to make tea, so they both shuffle toward the kitchen. Beelze cannot keep their head up any longer, so they head for their bed. Once tucked into it, however, their mind buzzes.

It’s important to know that all of them are companions in the honest sense. Each of them has entertained and bedded hundreds of people. They studied for years to perfect the great arts of conversation, dance, music, and wit. It’s also important to know that even though Crowley is accomplished, he believes he really is nothing more than a common whore. Nothing Beelze can tell him will make him believe otherwise. These thoughts often keep them awake at night, because, if they’re honest, Crowley is the best _oiran_ they’ve ever seen.

To be an _oiran_ is a gift for people like them. Beelze was a street urchin who begged for scraps before Lucifer took them in. Dagon, Ligur, and Hastur were all saved from the slave market. Instead of dying young and hungry, they have standing in the upper crust of society.

Crowley isn’t like them. It’s always true, they think. He is the bastard son of a high-born lady and her stablehand. He should have had a life of comfort and breeding. Instead, at ten months old, he was abandoned, bloodied and screaming, on the steps of Lucifer’s guild: the House of Acheron.

Beelze is not one to resort to violence, but if they were, they would find that high-born lady’s husband and beat him until his hips and spine angled like Crowley’s. It had taken hours of work to turn his broken gait into a “come hither” slink. It did make him an excellent dancer, which pleased many patrons. That was the only silver-lining Beelze could find, especially when the pain forced him to curl in a ball and weep.

Life as a courtesan is not so bad, really, even if Crowley disparaged it. Of course, it hadn’t ended up the way they had wanted. Beelze had hoped to be the Prince Regent’s consort, but that love affair had ended without patronage or a Pledge Bond tea service. Beelze frowns to themselves. Gabri—the Prince Regent still makes their heart clench. This is the closest they’ve ever allowed themselves to feel to heartbreak. There is an unspoken rule that companions should never fall in love. Beelze lets out a sigh and turns over to rest on the other hip.

They are Crowley’s older “sibling”, an honorific title given to mentors and novices within each House. They tutored and trained Crowley to be as good, if not better than them. Beelze lucked out—he has a natural talent for the arts and witty conversation. He’s disciplined and graceful.

Poor Dagon has Hastur. She cries about the way he plays music and sings. Apparently, he can’t find his way around a cock that isn’t Ligur’s. Beelze had tried to help Dagon out at one time and train him on some of the more personal elements of pleasure. They had to admit, he doesn’t know his way around a clit either.

On the other hand, Ligur, according to Lucifer, can do no wrong. His face is plastered all around the District in local adverts; his modeling brings in good money for the House. It’s a contract that was promised to Crowley but mysteriously became Ligur’s when Lucifer met the photographer at the gate. In spite, Beelze may have drawn a mustache on his chameleon sigil in an alleyway ad for bubble tea.

A reckoning is coming, when the Lord of the House finds out that two of his companions have been fucking around without training in mind. Hastur will be out in the street on his ass. Beelze wonders if Mister-Perfect-Ligur will go with him as they finally drift to sleep.

—

They wake to the dim glow of the early evening. A bath sounds nice, so Beelze pulls a dressing gown around their nightshirt and exits their room to find their little brother. Simultaneously, the House’s darling himself stumbles out of his adjacent room and down the steps into the courtyard. Dark circles ring under his eyes and speak to partying with too much booze and drug. The chameleon tattoo on his cheek looks like a bruise in this light. Beelze sighs. Ligur might be a lower rank than them, but he’s favored. He’ll get first dibs on the tub.

No rest for the wicked: Time to wake the serpent then, as it were. As Beelze descends the stairs, they sleepily take stock of the courtyard. Hastur lingers by one of the large planters.

“All right then, Ligur?” he queries. Beelze can hear the smothered jealousy. They shake their head. It’ll end in tears and drama. They’ve seen it a hundred times before. (They think of violet eyes and ignore the squeeze of their chest.) Hastur looks all around for Lucifer, then sweeps Ligur into his arms. Beelze turns away.

Instead, Beelze gazes up at the arching roof that frames their home. The House of Acheron is a two-story, square building with a decent courtyard garden. It was never the height of fashion. It’s the sort of House that was built in a hurry for the lower levels of the upper class. In their District, it’s the best that money can buy. But they are a four day’s ride from the capital, where accommodations such as these would only be a moderate whore house. 

Lucifer might see himself as the king of their District, but he was good at self-deceit. They are not high-class companions. They are the courtesans for those going up or coming down in wealth. Their silks are not fine and their instruments not priceless. They entertained those who gambled away their family estates and the people who claimed such wagers. Beelze’s own brush with the royal court was more a fluke than anything.

They are a favored _oiran_ ; they have a first-floor room. Crowley, being the lowest ranking of their House has a tiny room on the ground floor. They enter Crowley’s room without stumbling in the gray dark. His room has few belongings. Crowley is sprawled, naked, and face-down in his bed. His blanket is kicked off and dangling across the side of the mattress. Bite marks and scratches line his freckled, white skin. Beelze isn’t impressed. It takes a true caning to get sympathy from them. Crowley shifts and groans. He’s clearly awake.

“Get up, you lazy arse,” they tut before raising their foot to his shoulder and shoving him. “It’s nearly night.”

Crowley grumbles and braces his arms beside his head to push up from the mattress. A yellow eye peeks from under his arm.

“Is Ligur up?” he rumbles, his voice hoarse and low.

“He just emerged, but Hastur’s intercepted him,” Beelze informs and drops onto the mattress at Crowley’s hip. “You’ll need to get a move on though; I want a bath.”

Crowley swings his long legs off the bed and intentionally knees Beelze in the side. “God forbid that anyone else makes the damn tea or fills the fucking tub,” he grumbles sleepily and rubs a hand through his hair.

“Such are the chores of the youngest brother,” they remind. “I’ll make the tea if you trade me a favor?” they tease with a sensual draw. Crowley stands, stretches long arms over his head, before angling back to them with a glare.

“Never again,” he responds and waves a hand at their groin, “you have teeth down there.”

He grabs a silk dressing gown from the hook by the door and barely manages to dance out of the way as they kick out at him. “Better than your little baby snake dick,” they challenge with a wicked grin.

Crowley is in the doorway, but turns back to face them and opens his robe. “Baby snake? You’ve been misinformed. This is a killer,” he brags, framing his groin with his hands.

Beelze leans back on their elbows on the bed. “You forget how many times I’ve fucked you in training,” they remind him. “It’s a baby snake dick.”

Crowley flips them the two-fingered salute as he heads for the kitchen and tea duty.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Sex is an art and in a House such as this, has been perfected through practice. Beelze has bedded and been bedded by each of the companions there. If they were a more prestigious house in the capital they might have patrons come as training aids, but since they’re not, they’re left with each other.

The difference between a District House and one in the capital cannot be stressed enough. Country companions are not sophisticated enough to attend palace events. In fact, the only way that Beelze even saw the inside of the palace was because of Lucifer’s connections to the late king.

The bell from the gate disturbs Beelze’s thoughts. They take their time leaving Crowley’s room for the dusk of the courtyard. They are high ranking enough now that they’re not stuck with stupid chores like answering the door. They lean against a post and watch Hastur invite the man in.

He’s in royal colors.

Beelze’s heart speeds up. _Gabriel_ , they think.

The man looks out of place among their tropical plants. “I bring a letter for the Lord of the House of Acheron.”

Lucifer’s voice rings out from the story above them. “I am he. What news do you bring?”

The messenger looks uncomfortable and hands the letter to Hastur before speaking, “The Prince Regent is seeking a consort for his younger brother, Prince Aziraphale, Duke of Igirisu in honor of his fortieth birthday. The House of Acheron is invited to present one companion to the royal court.”

And the House is in an instant uproar. Lucifer calls for Ligur immediately. Hastur begins to weep and beg. Dagon screeches for Hastur to shut up. Each voice raises in pitch and scream. Beelze walks away from the royal messenger (who looks completely overwhelmed) to find Crowley. He’s in the kitchen watching hot water seep into the tea leaves.

“You think you can be the belle at the ball?” he asks them, without looking up.

“You think I’m young enough to be sold off?” Beelze snorts and drops onto a stool.

“They’ll send Ligur?” Crowley asks, still preoccupied.

Beelze raises an eyebrow, “You disagree?”

Crowley finally looks at her. His ginger hair is sleep-tangled and his eyes shadowed for lack of rest.

“Ligur would do the House proud,” he agrees. “But you would actually be chosen by the Prince Regent.”

Beelze waves this idea away, “The consort isn’t for Gabr—the Prince Regent.”

Crowley shrugs, “You would be close to him. Maybe that would be enough.” He collects teacups and arranges them near him. “I’d miss you.” His voice is small.

Beelze reaches over and lays their hand on his arm. “Ligur is going, but he won’t be chosen. We’re competing with the Houses that have money. Think about the clothes those others will have on. Ligur will look like he’s borrowed his mummy’s wedding dress.”

This makes Crowley smile. Ligur bursts into the kitchen and kicks a stool away from the counter. He is shouting, “I don’t want to go to court!”

Hastur is sobbing. His face is blotchy and red. In between his hitching sobs, he tries to speak, but the words are lost to tears. Dagon is furious and her body language tight as a fiddle string. Lucifer looks ready to scream.

“It is a great honor,” he bites out, “to attend the royal court’s needs.”

Crowley takes the tea things to the table and he pours the tea with balanced grace. Beelze can see the same practiced movements that their own hands make—the same movements they were taught by their own older sibling. Crowley will pass these same graces on to his younger sibling someday. The House may not be grand, but it does have generations. Beelze sits and the others follow slowly.

“I don’t want that honor,” Ligur whines, wiping snot from his nose with his sleeve. Lucifer’s hands tremble with rage. He grips his cup so hard that the porcelain squeaks.

Crowley is the least in favor. He is a bastard son and a survivor of severe abuse. Yet he is talented. He dances with the grace of a cobra. He plays the piano and harp with slithering beauty. He does not have any fine silks or fancy jewels. He is too young to have earned the esteem or favor of a returning patron, and certainly lacks the clout to be announced at the palace.

That’s why Beelze drops their tea when Lucifer turns to him and says, “Very well. Crowley, you will go to the Prince Regent and bring honor to our House.”

—

Beelze and Crowley pack his things carefully in his trunk. While he may not have many things of his own, he needs to take many elements of their trade.

First, there is the basin and pitcher. It’s black soapstone: heavy but delicate. This Beelze wraps in Crowley’s silk robes and gowns. Next, they seat his formal tea set into the trunk. It’s a black and red iron teapot that is matched with snake-circled _yunomi_ cups. Of course, they pack up his tools for fine art: paints, brushes, journals and sketchpads, quills, sheet music, and sewing thread and needles. There are additional layers of clothing: beaded heels and slim dancing slippers, shaded sunglasses, flowing skirts and scarves, long tunics, straw hats, tight suit trousers, and slim ties. Then, finally, there is a box for the bedroom. Crowley opens the wooden lid and checks his supplies. His long fingers push silk ropes aside to check the quantities of sweet almond oil, condoms, and candles. Pleased, he closes the latch and places this into the trunk.

The door opens and Lucifer enters. Beelze smiles tightly, “We’re nearly done. Just a bit more folding.”

Lucifer nods distractedly before looking into the truck. “Leave room for the Pledge Bond tea set and the Unity Cords.”

Crowley looks up sharply. “There’s no chance that I will—“

Lucifer clears his throat and Crowley immediately quiets. “The wheel of fortune spins many ways.” He shrugs. “You bring honor to our House. How much honor remains to be seen.”

And then he is gone with a swish of silk. Beelze feels a tickle of unease. Lucifer is not one for hopeless daydreaming. Before they can comment, however, Crowley is off to locate the mentioned items.

Beelze wipes their face with their hand before leaving Crowley’s room to visit the textile room. Bolts of linens are lined on the cutting table for their haberdasher to bully into fashion. There is no time for them to call on her services. They will need to travel from the _okiya_ to the palace at a near break-neck speed to arrive in time for Crowley’s presentation. What Beelze needs is a creative fix.

“Needs to catch the eye,” they murmur, as they think of the quality of the competition’s gowns and robes. “Unusual.” They climb the ladder up into the higher shelves of fabric. Their fingers brush along corduroy and calico. There is nothing exceptional there.

Except, as they give up hope and begin to descend the ladder, something gilt and costly catches their eye. Tucked under a pile of cheap cotton bolts is several yards of rich black silk. It is edged in resplendent crimson and infused with gold thread. As Beelze pulls it from under the other fabrics, the light sparkles on the gold. The black is lustrous in the fading sunlight. They say nothing to anyone, but shove it into the trunk under Crowley’s other silks.

Then they pack their own bag. If they borrow some gold jewelry from the others, what does it matter? They won’t miss it until they’re on the road.

—

The court is nothing like Beelze remembers. For one, they are not being housed near the royal bedrooms. That was from their time before, when Gabr— _the Prince Regent_ looked at them like they were precious.

Instead, they’re giving an austere room in the Squire’s quarters. It is fitted with a simple bed and lesser quality trundle, a small fireplace, a pitiful candle, and one small looking glass. It’s long past midnight when they arrive and the candle does little to light the corners of the room. Crowley shrugs and pulls out the trundle before dropping onto it like a sack of flour.

Beelze ignores his drama and digs the basin and pitcher free from the trunk. Three and half days of hard travel have set their temper on edge. There is dust in every crevice of their body and no bathing tub to be found. They set the pitcher on the floor and then continue to find the basin. The trundle bed gives a whine and Crowley stands from it.

“I’ll see about a tub,” he comments, claiming the pitcher. He exits before Beelze can respond. They do not miss being the lowest ranking member of the House. There were too many thankless jobs—fetching water was certainly on the list. Beelze begins the tedious process of removing their boots. It involves a good deal of rocking and cursing.

“No tub to be had. Apparently they were claimed by the companions who arrived days ago,” Crowley states without a trace of apology in his tone.

He pushes the door closed with his foot and kneels next to Beelze. Steam lazily curls out of the top of the pitcher. He digs around in his trunk before removing a bar of olive oil soap and a linen cloth. He sets this aside and begins the task of helping his older sibling bathe.

Others might find such actions strange. In the Houses, however, _oiran’s_ bodies are like instruments. They’re disciplined. Sex is an art and bodies are the tools from which such art is derived. Crowley helps Beelze disrobe and he pours water from the pitcher into the bowl. He wets their skin with the hot water and linen cloth. There is soap and more water. The water in the basin slowly darkens with the red and brown dust from the road. For their hair, Crowley has a comb and more hot water. Finally, as Beelze takes the cloth from Crowley to wash their face, and they feel clean enough to sleep. They ignore Crowley as he gathers the dirty linen and basin of water.

Instead, they take stock of how they feel. Even close to the fire, they are chilled. They are naked and damp. They drag out a clean tunic and trousers and take comfort in their warmth. Then, finally, they listen to their weary muscles and drop into bed. Crowley is using the last of the clean water from the pitcher to wash his face and hands. He is too tired to do anything else, so he collapses onto the trundle bed with a groan.

They’re too tired to move, but Beelze leans over to blow out the candle. The dying fire casts shadows all about the room. Crowley’s voice breaks through the quiet.

“What is the Prince like?”

Beelze wonders why they didn’t discuss this in the daylight of their long travels. Then again, their own apprehension about seeing the Prince Regent again had cut all conversation short.

“The Prince Regent is an arrogant git and I’m pretty sure saying that is treason.”

Crowley inhales, then lets the breath hiss out again. Beelze snorts.

“You meant the other one. The birthday boy, huh?” they roll onto their shoulder so they’re facing the side of the bed that the trundle is on. “He’s an angel, I think. Kind and gentle, but funny. Really snarky. He used to make the most passive-aggressive comments to his brother—I used to wonder if he’d be taken to the gallows over it. I think Gab—the Prince Regent sent him into the military to get him out from underfoot.”

Crowley sighs, “An angel, huh? Well, there go my chances.”

Beelze can’t help it. They laugh. It’s a startled bark of a thing, but it seems to sum up all their emotions.

“Neither of us is actually a demon, you know,” they comment, like a throwaway statement. “I just look like a fly, I’m not really one.”

Crowley mumbles something into his blanket, which might be something about them “not being the one with devil eyes”.

Beelze waits to see if he will add to this comment. When nothing further comes, they reach down and offer Crowley their hand. He grips theirs immediately. These are the moments that companions need their “older siblings”. Beelze had leaned on Lucifer the same way once.

“Why did you choose the serpent as your sigil?” they ask. The conversation echos one they once had with their older House brother.

Crowley traces Beelze’s knuckles with his thumb. “My eyes, mainly. Snakes aren’t too bad, overall, though; cunning and able to shed their skins. Change, really, I guess.”

Beelze hums. “Flies have a lifecycle. Change, but also they’re so important—no one remembers that they break shit down. I don’t mind being in the background, but I’m important. I knew that when I was younger.”

Crowley’s thumb presses into their knuckle with deeper pressure. “Still are. I still need ya.”

“Go the fuck to sleep then,” Beelze growls as they squeeze Crowley’s hand. They do not let go.

His breathing evens out almost immediately and Beelze follows him into sleep.

—

Loud noises in the hall wake them far too soon. Companions are creatures of the night. They work in the dark and then sleep away most of the day, letting that rest drag the hard-living from their souls.

In the royal court, on the day of the presentation, however, there is no sleeping in.

Crowley stretches, his long arms and legs like white, freckled lines. “I’ll find your tea,” he offers, but they shake their head.

“We have to get you ready. Today,” they pause to glare at him, “you’re the priority.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and disappears into the hall to find the chamber pot. He returns sometime later with a bucket of steaming water and some sort of breakfast bun. He tosses the roll to them and begins to efficiently strip from his traveling clothes. Beelze has begun their own hygiene regiment while he’s been away and is nearly presentable if they say so themselves.

They abandon this, however, to shove the bun in their mouth and grab the soaped linen from Crowley. They scrub his back until his skin is a healthy pink. Then the same treatment goes to his buttock and the backs of his legs. Crowley suffers through it all, and Beelze stops here and there only to take a mouthful of their breakfast.

It’s his hair that takes the most time. There is so much of it and it’s so dirty from their travels. Beelze makes him lay on his trundle and then drapes his hair into the bucket. The dust swirls away, leaving the strands red as fire embers. Soap helps and more water leaves him looking nearly as clean as he does at the House. It will have to do.

Then, each armed with a comb, they section his hair and comb sweet almond oil into his tresses. Finally, Beelze forces Crowley to sit by the fire and let the heat dry his hair into ringlet curls. They kneel in front of him and hold the mirror for him to shave. His blade scrapes away his stubble meticulously and they stand when he’s finished.

Beelze hands him a cup of water. He drinks it begrudgingly, then cleans his teeth. As he does so, they find the black tunic that they have been embroidering during their travels. The stitches have errors—the bounce of the carriage and the low light had not helped their anxiety for seeing the Prince Regent again—but now it does not look so plain.

They hold it out to Crowley and he slips it over his head. The linen is not fine, but it suits him. There are no sleeves and the neckline is a deep vee. Beelze has sewn red snakes all around his throat. Next, Crowley selects a portion of his hair over one ear and begins to plait two intricate braids. These he lets mix with his rowdy curls.

Beelze can tell that Crowley’s hair isn’t even quite dry, but they’re down to the wire on time. They collect the yards of black silk fabric they found and begin the arduous process of wrapping and draping the fabric into a sari. The texture of the silk against the texture of the linen makes the two blacks look like completely different colors. They pin the remainder of the fabric, the pallu, to the shoulder of his tunic with a gold snake pin that they borrowed from Hastur (without his permission). Crowley slides his feet into a pair of red, beaded slippers while Beelze slips a gold-beaded veil over his head. The veil is the same bright red as his shoes. If they’d had more time, there would be more jewelry. Something in his hair perhaps?

Beelze hears the gong and hastily throws on their own veil. It's a square of short black and red-spotted sheer fabric. As they run down the hallway, Beelze pulls a red sash over their jacket. Crowley hurriedly hands them their cravat. It’s multiple layers of ribbon that are pinned in place. There is already a line of companions—many of them apparently waiting to be received for hours. They line the hallway in glittering jewels and sparkling gowns or robes. Silks and satins in every color of the rainbow rustle along the stones. There is not an _oiran_ in this queue dressed in less than three thousand quid.

Crowley isn’t dressed even remotely like them. In fact, even Beelze’s formal suit is clearly out of style. Not only are they nearly the last companions in line, but they’re also dressed like country bumpkins. Beelze tries to ignore the panic that lines their throat. Secretly, they believed they had a chance. They’d caught Gabr—the Prince Regent’s eye once, so they knew that Crowley had the same skill set. He was certainly beautiful enough.

Beelze feels foolish for assuming that the rest of them would be less than beautiful themselves. They also have the benefit of current connections and highly rated, capital-based Houses.

They wait impatiently. Crowley fusses over Beelze’s sash and jacket to keep his hands busy. The line progresses down the hall, slowly. As they near the entrance to the throne room, they can hear the droning announcements of each companion’s name and House.

_“Sister Mary Loquacious, the House of Chattering St. Beryl, escorted by Sister Theresa Garrulous,”_ echos down the hall.

Crowley is calm. Unlike Beelze, he never thought he’d have a chance, so now that he feels his House sibling looks their best, he stills. It actually soothes Beelze. They care for each other, beyond the so-called “sibling” title that the House has forced on them. It’s good.

They inch closer. Three more introductions and they’ll be at the dais.

Beelze leans around the wide-hipped Pannier gown of the companion in front of them.

There _he_ is.

Their breath catches. They inch forward with the line and drink in his square jaw and violet eyes. The Prince Regent’s hair shines in the sunlight. Crowley takes Beelze’s hand and squeezes it.

They inhale. Straighten their spine. Beside them, Crowley mirrors these movements.

It’s time.

“Crowley of the House of Acheron, escorted by Beelze.”

And they stride together like a dance up to the dais. Crowley steps before them and makes an elegant bow. Beelze approaches and makes the same graceful bow. All around the edges of the room are courtesans. The newly introduced companions look longingly at the dais and the princes there.

Beelze knows this, but see none of it, because he’s right there. They chance a glance up through their hair and the sheer fabric of their veil. The Prince Regent— _Gabriel_ —is looking at them with wide, longing eyes. Beelze can’t breathe.

“Wait,” the Prince Regent calls and holds up his hand. The entire throne room is startled into silence. Beelze makes a second, lower bow. Crowley follows suit.

The Prince Regent rises from his throne and steps off the dais.

“Beelze?” he calls, warm and welcoming. He holds out his arms with his hands outstretched.

Beelze’s heart is pounding in their ears. “My prince?” they manage to squeak out. It’s too informal for the throne room and for the court. It was whispered behind bed curtains. It slips out all the same.

Gabriel doesn’t seem to care. He gathers them up into his arms with a roar of laughter. “You look amazing! How have you been? Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since my wedding!”

All around them, courtesans lean into each other and whisper.

“I am well, my prince,” Beelze replies, their voice nearly lost to the tightness of their throat.

The Prince Regent leans into to hug them again and this time whispers into their ear.

“Bee,” he sighs like he’s near tears.

There is another roar of whispers. Princess Uriel sits on a smaller throne on the dais. She looks nonplussed as she sips her wine. Beside her, however, is a blond-haired man. He is dressed in the Prince Regent’s colors with a cream coat and a blue tunic. His eyes are bright and blue… and locked completely on Crowley.

There, held close to the man they love, Beelze realizes that the House of Acheron is about to go up in standing faster than anyone has ever seen a House do so before.


	2. Unity Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince meets a certain companion. It's a fairy tale romance... with smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind notes as you're reading. I hope you continue to enjoy this.

Crowley is the most beautiful creature that Aziraphale has ever seen. This is the only thought that circles in his mind.

The concept of the _cortigiane oneste_ does not appeal to him, in all honesty. Honestly, it was easier to poo-poo from the safety of his dusty library, surrounded by years of learning than standing before all this spectacle. When Sandalphon had informed him of his upcoming birthday “present”, Aziraphale had made strong, yet ineffectual arguments. He pouted. He fought. Then he put on his suit and showed up at his brothers’ sides on the dais. As this night has progressed, his opinion is only further cemented. One after another they enter and bow— interchangeable, overly-dressed, glorified prostitutes.

There are those with ostrich feathers in tall, white hair and those in velvet frock coats and satin heels. Men waltz by in sequined gowns and ladies in silver tuxes. There is more money on display in the room than the crown jewel vault, Aziraphale is certain. Sandalphon glares, so he tries to hide his micro expressions and how often he rolls his eyes. As the night drags on, however, he can no longer stop himself from huffing out his displeasure with each introduction.

And then Crowley enters.

First, Aziraphale notices him because his escort and he are dressed in the formal attire of the less affluent Districts to the South. Next to the other companions, they are practically in rags. Yet, they are graceful in a way that the others seem to only emulate. Crowley and his escort move in tandem, as if one is the shadow to the other.

And then Gabriel descends from his throne and envelopes his former companion in his arms. It’s then that Aziraphale knows he only has a moment’s chance to talk to this striking man.

Feeling like every kind of hypocrite at Sandalphon’s knowing smirk, he descends the dais and maneuvers around the crowd. Crowley’s eyes are under a red veil, but his shock is still visible when he sees Aziraphale approach. He offers another, smaller bow.

“Your Royal Highness,” he gulps, sounding a bit strangled.

Aziraphale reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand. It’s a finely-sculpted hand, he notes, with long fingers, complete with calluses from playing some sort of stringed instrument. His heart is beating in his ears, but Aziraphale screws his courage to the sticking place and brings that lovely hand to his mouth for a courtly kiss. He smells sweet oil on his delicate hand. Maybe the prince lingers over those fingers too long—so he kisses Crowley’s hand again.

Then, with his cheeks aflame, he steps back. Crowley’s eyes are huge and his mouth creased in a giant grin.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale stutters, “I do not know what’s come over me, dear boy.”

This only seems to spur further smiles from Crowley. The skin around his eyes crinkles and he huffs out a laugh.

“May I get you a drink, Your Royal Highness?”

Aziraphale flaps his hand at the companion, “Oh, no, my dear. I’ve promised myself that I shan’t drink until this debacle is over. I’ll make more of a fool of myself than I already have.”

Crowley’s grin gentles into something warmer, “So copious amounts of alcohol before bed then?”

Aziraphale lets his eyes drift down the courtesan’s bare biceps and the darker hair on his forearms. The sari drapes across his shoulder and draws the prince’s gaze back up. Crowley’s eyebrow arches high and his amusement is evident. All around them the room bubbles with conversation. Somewhere beyond them, music starts up.

“All it takes is to mention a bed? Really? I thought you’d be harder to seduce than that, Angel,” Crowley quips and then his entire face shutters in alarm. His eyes widen in embarrassment. He makes a garbled noise. “I mean to say, Your Royal Highness.”

Before either of them can further embarrass themselves, Gabriel grabs Aziraphale by the shoulder. It’s not rough or tight like Metatron or Sandalphon’s grip. It is, however, trembling minutely.

“Brother, do introduce me—or, should I say, Beelze, would you introduce us to your protege?” Gabriel’s voice catches on the companion’s name and he looks back at them with quickly-hidden longing.

Beelze looks a bit starstruck but comes to their senses with a courtly bow. “Your Majesties, I am honored to introduce my ‘little brother,’ Crowley of the House of Acheron.”

Crowley bows to the Prince Regent again, but this time as he stands, his eyes travel up Aziraphale’s legs and torso. The prince flushes again and twists his fingers together. Crowley’s smile is practically serpentine.

Gabriel holds out his arm to Beelze. The companion takes a series of steadying breaths before laying their hand on the Prince Regent’s arm.

“Let’s go to supper,” he calls and leads the court into the dining room.

Sandalphon calls from the dais, “There are still companions to be presented—“

But the Prince Regent waves him off. In a huff, he offers his hand to Princess Uriel and they follow Gabriel. Aziraphale should fall in line behind his brother, but Crowley must stay with his escort. It seems logical then to offer his arm to the companion. Crowley practically vibrates.

Beelze is standing beside the seat to Gabriel’s left, while Princess Uriel awaits to be seated at his right. Uriel doesn’t seem to notice the placement of an unknown courtesan, but Aziraphale knows that nothing escapes the future queen. He drifts over to the left side of the table, across from his brother Sandalphon. Meanwhile, hundreds of courtesans are pushing into the dining room. Every one of them has their eye on the seat next to Aziraphale. He makes a split-second decision and pulls out Crowley’s chair for him.

The companion is delighted if the joy in his eyes is anything to gauge. Aziraphale feels an iota of guilt for using the _oiran_ as a barrier between himself and the other courtesans. He notices that Crowley and Beelze share a glance over his head and both look completely out of their element for a split second. When the prince looks closer, their expressions have both smoothed back into pleasant interest. He chuckles and Crowley gives a guilty grin that shows that knows he’s been caught.

Aziraphale prepares to offer some sort of conversation starter while the rest of the court files toward their seats, but he is distracted by the crowd of people passing them. Handkerchiefs, roses, and other favors flutter down all around Aziraphale. Hands brush across the back of his chair. People murmur happy birthday or promise him how much he’d appreciate them in his bed. He just offers a brittle, tight smile to all of this.

And then he sees Crowley frown. He looks away from Aziraphale and the parade passing them. He fidgets with the waist of his sari.

“My dear?” the prince queries and turns toward the companion. Just as moments before, he plasters a bland smirk over the honest emotion of discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness,” he offers smoothly, “I’ve just realized that I haven’t wished you a happy birthday and blessings for the following year.”

Aziraphale feels something shift in the air around him. He tunes out his brother the Prince Regent, ignores the scrapes of chairs, and forgets the flood of people dropping things for him to pick up. He leans closer to Crowley and grabs his wrist.

“Please,” he begins, just a hair more controlled than begging, “don’t be like them.”

And Crowley’s reaction is instantaneous. His eyes are wide and frightened. His lips part and he draws a long inhale.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the companion begins, but he’s interrupted as the Prince Regent takes his seat. All around them the other members of the court pull out their chairs and sit at the table.

Aziraphale remains standing holding Crowley’s wrist loosely. Crowley’s chest is actually heaving as he holds the prince’s gaze. People stare. Aziraphale can feel his blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. There are faux pases, and then there is _this_.

And Crowley comes to the rescue. He gives a jolly laugh and then spins around, using Aziraphale’s hold on his wrist as if it’s a dancing position. And then the companion is dancing away, all supple limbs and flowing silk. His veil sways with his movements and it gives a peek of stubble on his chin. The musicians who have been meekly playing in the corner strike up with a jig. The Prince Regent chuckles, which actually surprises Aziraphale. Other courtesans refuse to be outdone once they see that Gabriel isn’t about to throw the scruffy Southern _oiran_ out on his arse. They jump up and try to dance close to Aziraphale.

Crowley sweeps in, just as three separate companions corner Aziraphale between his chair and the table. He grabs the prince by the hands and swings him out into the walkway, then lets Aziraphale grab his waist. Then the prince guides them into a Foxtrot and dances Crowley backward and then about the floor. He’s never claimed to be light on his feet, but with the companion in his arms, he feels like he’s floating. Crowley is grinning ear-to-ear and laughing like a bell.

Aziraphale’s heart skips beats. Is this the value of leaving his library? He spins Crowley and the movement of the turn sweeps Crowley’s veil and hair away from his temple so that Aziraphale glances his sigil tattoo.

“A snake?” he questions breathlessly.

Crowley’s eyes are wide and wondering again, like a child. Then he’s nodding vigorously as Aziraphale clutches his waist and pulls him closer. Crowley adjusts his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder so that he’s tucked into the prince’s chest tighter.

“Our House chooses a spirit animal from the unwanted totems. We’re all—well, you know we’re not—“ and he grimaces, then soldiers on, “first choice companions. We’re orphans and bastards, the lot of us.”

The silk under Aziraphale’s palm feels like water. He flexes his fingers and feels the cord of muscle in the small of Crowley’s back. Crowley is awaiting his reply. When none comes, he quickly fills the silence.

“I’m not the consort you want, my prince. I’m a nobody.” And Aziraphale feels a weight press on his chest. He lets his thumb trace the edge of Crowley’s hip. “These others, they’re high born. Connected. It’s why your brother let Beelze go—we’re not useful in a palace.”

“You’d tell me who I want?” Aziraphale asks, sharply. He lets some space come between their bodies as they dance.

Crowley’s eyes flash with fear and then solidify into stone. He’s fierce now. “You’re a prince. I’m the bastard son of a whore.”

Aziraphale tucks his thumb under the wrap of silk at Crowley’s hip and tugs him close again. He presses his mouth close to the companions ear and growls, “And I’m a nobody fourth son of a dying, addled queen whose military command in the Great War was overshadowed by my inability to negotiate a surrender. But you’ve made this night bearable in just a few moments, so I imagine that hours with you will be heaven.”

Heat radiates off his cheeks. Crowley doesn’t appear embarrassed but instead overwhelmed. He rests his forehead on the prince’s chest and heaves shuttering breaths as if he might sob. Aziraphale is pretty certain this is not technically allowed, but he also doesn’t particularly give a damn. The musicians finish with a crescendo and Aziraphale loosens his grip on Crowley. He steps away from his dance partner and gives a slight bow of the head. Crowley is bent nearly in half, bowing with more grace than most mortals.

Aziraphale offers the companion his hand and leads him back to their seats. Gabriel is watching them astutely. He leans over to Beelze and murmurs to them. Beelze gives a witty retort which draws a charmed smile from the Prince Regent.

On the other hand, Sandalphon is openly tutting to Uriel, who looks equally peeved. Other companions attempt to intercept the prince, but Aziraphale simply puts them off with a comment about how divine the meal will be and how he can’t wait for them to break bread with him.

He helps Crowley into his seat and pushes his chair in before settling down himself. Once there, he grabs his wine glass and, against the rules he’d set for himself earlier that night, gulps down large mouthfuls of the Semillon.

“Steady there, Your Royal Highness,” Beelze coaches with a delighted tease, before taking a sip of their own wine. “Too much of that and you’ll be dancing on the table.”

Aziraphale gives a nervous chuckle and is saved from conversation by the arrival of the soup. It’s an Austen-like white soup. Between the veal bones, the sugared almonds, the anchovies, the bacon and the eggs, its rich and creamy. He takes his first spoonful and gives a pleased, but lewd hum. Crowley’s spoon is suspended midair. He is blatantly gaping at the prince.

“Oh, my dear, you must try this, it’s absolutely extraordinary,” he gushes. Crowley slowly brings the spoon behind his veil and sips from it. Like his bow and his dancing, his movements are smooth and elegant. Aziraphale finds himself absorbed in watching the other man eat. Crowley notices and flushes from his neck to his ears. It’s quite a blush to show through scarlet veiling.

The companion leans into his craft to cover his embarrassment, and begins to spool out his conversation skills.

“Tell me, Your Royal Highness,” he begins, with another sip of soup, “how often do you dance? You were spirited.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale presses his lips together and gives a grimace, “not too often, I fear. I do not find myself the dancing type.”

  
This actually gives Crowley pause. “You’re a wonderful dancer. I assumed you danced nightly, the way you were leading me about.”

Aziraphale gives a fake, but what he hopes is an airy laugh. “No need to flatter me, my dear. I know my skills lie in academia, not the physical realm.”

Crowley’s eyebrow arches higher and higher as the prince speaks. “I was there, Your Grace. I was dancing with you. You are an excellent partner.”

Aziraphale busies himself with another spoonful or two of soup. “I should be thanking you for saving me from such mortification. I have no idea what came over me.” He glances over and meets Crowley’s gaze. “Well. I mean—“

“Your Royal Highness, I do believe you were going to say something to me. About being like… them,” Crowley says in a hushed tone.

Aziraphale fiddles with his spoon and then stirs it through his soup. Crowley sips his wine and watches the prince.

“I am like them, you need to understand that,” he begins as he sets his wine glass back on the table. “I am trained to be just as vapid as all of them. Before traveling here, I spent nearly a week in the company of a woman who made a common whore looks virtuous. I do as I am ordered, Your Grace. I am not a free man—I’m a companion. The House of Acheron owns my soul.”

Aziraphale has given up any pretense of eating or holding a light dinner conversation. His brow knits and he focuses on the _oiran_ at his side.

“I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re a good—“

Crowley interrupts him, even though his voice does not raise. “I’m a prostitute who can paint and play the piano, Your Royal Highness. Heaven would never let me in. Beelze was right, you’re an angel. I’m practically the serpent of Eden. I can’t tarnish you.”

Crowley twists his spoon in his fingers before setting it down on the table. And Aziraphale feels his moment slipping away. He’d wanted conversation. Instead, the very heart in his chest is beating out conviction. He wants far more than conversation with this man.

“Excuse me, my dear princely brother,” he addresses Gabriel with an incline of his head. This entreatment silences most of the table. The Prince Regent looks to his youngest brother with a knowing grin. “I was wondering how you’d like me to choose my gift in such a fine flock of courtesans?”

Gabriel leans forward in his chair, folding his hands as in in prayer. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his steepled fingers. “I suppose I would ask you to choose the one that makes feel the happiest.”

Aziraphale nods and then, with a dramatic moue, continues, “But what if I believe I’ve made my choice. Would your Majesty disapprove if I announced it so early in the night?”

Gabriel turns his gaze on the long table of the court. “My little brother the prince is eager, I believe, to explore his present in his bed chamber.” The court gives the expected laugh like an audience with a cue card. Gabriel looks to the far window where the sun has not yet begun to set. He looks back down the table. “He is eager for bedtime!” Then he gives a knowing smirk to Aziraphale.

“Go on then. Get out of here. Take your consort with you.” He then turns to the rest of the court, “Hear that I give my dear brother leave of our presence with the companion of his choosing that he might take that consort as his own.”

Sandalphon sputters as Aziraphale stands, bows, then walks to his brother Gabriel’s side. He takes the Prince Regent’s hand and kisses his ring. Then he bows again. The entire court is watching, silent. Aziraphale returns to his chair and waits behind it. He holds out his hand to Crowley and smiles reassuringly.

“Come now, my dear,” he says warmly, “let us prove to the Prince and his court that a demon and an angel can teach the world about love.”

Crowley is absolutely stunned. His mouth is open in a perfect “oh” and his eyes are nearly as wide. He moves tentatively to take the prince’s hand and stand. The table full of courtesans is slow to applaud. They’re in a jealous stupor and Aziraphale finds he does not remotely care.

Instead, he leads Crowley out of the dining room, but does not fail to notices that Beelze also jumps up and follows them out. Once they are away from their audience, he turns to Beelze. Crowley clings to his hand, looking absolutely at sea. He looks from the prince to his older sibling and back again.

“I assure you, my good companion, that I will take good care of your little brother—“

“It’s not that, Your Grace,” Beelze begins, but Crowley takes over.

“I need help with the ceremony. It takes two companions—the consort and their House sibling.”

Ah, yes. Some sort of binding ceremony. “That’s not necessary—“ Aziraphale begins, but stops himself when he sees both companions shrink back. “I mean to say that I do not want to own you, my dear boy.”

Crowley shakes his head and the beads on his veil catch the light. “It’s not ownership. This is a promise.”

“ _Oiran_ cannot marry,” Beelze states succinctly. “Our ceremonies are to swear our fidelity, companionship, and affection. It can be broken, if that is your concern—“ they continue uncertainly. Both they and Crowley look a bit heartsick at the notion.

“Of course, I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps you can explain it to me further as we go into my chambers.” It seems to ease the tension and they follow him like a pair of matched shadows.

Crowley’s fingers tangle between Aziraphale’s almost unconsciously. When the prince glances down to see the change in their hold, Crowley’s cheeks blaze pink. Beelze looks at them knowingly.

They begin to explain the ceremony. It is nothing grand. As far as Aziraphale can tell, is simply to establish roles. There is tea and a hand fasting.

“And then I paint the sigils while the tea cools,” Beelze offers breezily.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale asks, lost.

“Houses each have their own traditions,” Crowley explains, “they come from the different areas of your kingdom. The South is known for their totems and their tattoos.”

“Our House and others in our branch took these into our roles. We choose a totem and,” here Beelze taps their temple where five bugs are tattooed, “take these as our spirit totem.”

Crowley pauses to step out of his slippers with a sigh of relief. Aziraphale stops also, close enough that their hands are not held taunt while the companion bends down to pick up his shoes. He carries them by their heel. They swing at his side.

“Wedding in the South have tattoos. Permanence of the commitment, you know,” Beelze reflects, as if not interrupted.

Crowley shrugs, “Consorts can’t have that promise. It’s paint instead. It last for a week or two, but then it’s just a memory.”

The concept is fascinating, if not tinged with longing. Aziraphale promises to research it further when he can return to his library. At this moment, he has to admit that he wants his next course of study to be Crowley. He smooths the pad of his index finger along Crowley’s nail. Crowley inhales sharply.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re no blushing virgin,” Beelze snaps quietly.

It’s meant only for Crowley, but even so it startles Aziraphale. Crowley glares at their House sibling, but makes no retort. He does give a reassuring squeeze to the prince’s hand. They descend the last set of tunnel-like halls to Aziraphale’s portion of the palace. He leads them around the corner and into a courtyard.

Aziraphale tries to see the view as if for the first time. There is a bathing pool with a fountain in the center. All around are tropical palms and white and orange bird of paradise flowers. Something smells fragrant. Cicadas hiss in the dusk. Mats and pillows are tossed near freshly-lit torches, for the sun is descending in the sky. Above them, framed by the white marble of the walls is the sunset. Thunderheads are streaked with orange and purple light. Lightning, unable to strike the ground, charges through these high clouds. They light up portions of the cloud like children playing tag. First this section, then the opposite, then back again.

Crowley slows and Aziraphale does too when he feels this companions’ pace change. He is glad that he does because Crowley is enraptured. He turns his face up to the sky and then pulls his veil over his head to look without the barrier. Aziraphale is absolutely dumbstruck. Crowley’s face is lit with wonder and the bright light of the clouds. His eyes are lightning yellow. They sparkle with delight.

He must feel Aziraphale’s gaze, for he looks down at the prince and embarrassment fills his face. His mouth frowns at the corners and his eyes close to avoid being seen.

This will not do.

Without another thought, Aziraphale surges forward and presses his mouth to the companion’s. And then Crowley gives a deep chuckle and takes the lead. Whatever training he has received as a _oiran_ is sinful. Aziraphale has never been kissed like this. It’s as if Crowley has only one focus, and it’s to taste the very essence of the prince’s soul. He brings their joined hands up between their chests and steps closer.

Distantly, beyond the sensation of soft lips and wet tongue, Aziraphale hears Crowley’s shoes fall to the paving stones. Then his arm wraps around the prince’s shoulders and draws him into his chest. Aziraphale bunches his free hand in silk and linen and pulls Crowley even closer.

Beelze gives a dramatic sigh. “Is this going to be an all night thing, because I’d like to make some tea, paint your arms, and get some sleep.” They hum before continuing, “And maybe sneak back into the dining hall for cake.”

Aziraphale and Crowley break apart and the prince gasps. Crowley’s pupils are blown wide; they’re more dilated than should be possible. He licks his lips and gives a predatory smile. Aziraphale feels a flush of arousal and clears his throat. He bends down and picks up Crowley’s slippers.

“My chambers are this way.”

He takes them first into his sitting room where he toes off his sandals. This room joins his bed chamber from the one set aside for his future spouse. Now, it’s to be Crowley’s. The knowledge warms something in his belly. He gives a pleased wiggle.

This sitting area is a spacious room that opens out onto the balcony. Dark mahogany shutters frame the doorway as the only possible block from the elements. Palms sway in the bright colors of the sunset and the tide roars against the rocks on the shore. Crowley eyes take in the low couches and chaises and candled sconces. The room is lined with bookshelves which makes Beelze smile.

“Your room is this way,” he guides, pulling open the arched door. It’s a consort’s room. A large, four-poster bed draped in mosquito netting dominates the room. A candle in a glass hurricane lights the room from the bedside. There is a tall bureau and a simple writing desk and chair. Angled to look out at the coast is a brocaded chaise lounge.

Aziraphale walks to the corner and pulls the plaited cord that rings for a servant. Running feet echo down the hall and the servants’ entrance opens. A spotty teen bows awkwardly and awaits his orders.

“Bring _Oiran_ Crowley and _Oiran_ Beelze’s things to this room, please.” And the spotty teen gives another awkward bow and flees.

Aziraphale nervously wrings his hands as he takes in the impersonal quarters. “We can rearrange furniture, or bring other things in.”

Crowley smiles slowly, like warm honey. He reaches up and unpins the veil from his hair. Lovely ginger curls bounce as he shakes his head. He sets the veil on the table near the candle.

“It’s larger than my rooms at our House. I certainly never had a bed big enough to entertain in… or a view of the ocean,” he grins. Aziraphale feels a flush of anticipation at the prospect of entertainment. He flushes. Beelze laughs and Crowley shushes them.

The door from the servant’s hall swings open aggressively, and a stocky, unkempt man stumbles in carrying a large trunk. The spotty teen from earlier enters behind him with an assortment of boxes and travel cases. It’s an unfortunate first look into the palace’s household and Aziraphale grimaces. Shadwell usually works to carry goods to the kitchens and is rarely in the private family chambers.

“Where d’ya want this?” he growls, then apparently noting who he is speaking to begins to stutter. “My apologies, Your Grace, I ugh—“

Crowley intervenes. “If you could set our things down there.”

Shadwell glares and drops the trunk. The additional boxes and cases join it and the two servants give hasty bows and move to depart.

Beelze buzzes at them, “Some hot water, if you please. For tea and washing.”

Shadwell frowns, but nods. The door is not even closed behind them before Beelze and Crowley are in motion. The trunk is opened and items removed from it hastily.

Beelze busies themselves with a box of dried paints, which they measure into terra-cotta pots. When the boiling water arrives, they spoon some into each cup and stir. Aziraphale watches, rapt, as they create a rainbow of colored paints. Meanwhile, Crowley has collected assorted items from their luggage and taken them into the sitting room. Aziraphale hears a low table give a woeful screech as Crowley drags it to where he wants it. Next, he circles it with a multitude of cushions. Aziraphale pauses behind the sofa and watches the refined way Crowley moves.

He collects the crates he selected from the other room and relocates them to the low table. Then, he kneels and bows low. He kisses two fingers and presses these to the snake sigil at his temple. Aziraphale takes a step forward to watch the ritual.

His breath catches with each neat movement Crowley makes. While kneeling, he measures tea leaves into a red and black iron tea pot and adds water. Then he finds a second tea pot, this service much larger and shining gold. Unlike the previous iron pot, this one is cherished like a relic. Crowley bows to it and repeats the brushed kiss to his sigil. Then tea and water join it and then he sets the table.

Beelze gives a slight bow to the prince as they hurry by and line their paints away from the table. Then they dig into the other crate and remove a bundle of ribbons. All at once, the two House siblings look at each other and their frantic preparations end.

As if summoned by this timing, Gabriel knocks on the door frame. The two companions leap up and bow low. Aziraphale gives a courtly bow, but quickly so he can greet the Prince Regent.

“I had hoped the join in your Unity ceremony,” the Prince Regent admits. Aziraphale is surprised that Gabriel has left the court with so many guests. He feels an uncommon flurry of brotherly affection.

“I would be honored, Your Majesty,” he admits before turning to the table that the companions have prepared.

And just like that, the ritual begins. The mood changes and Aziraphale looks to Crowley. The companion’s face is open, but searching. Aziraphale offers a smile which he hopes is comforting. Crowley beams back at him, before nodding to Beelze.

“We come to you as servants of the goddess Béḃinn,” they begin in tandem and both House siblings bow low, then kiss their fingers and brush their sigils.

“I, Beelze, come as the emissary for my little brother Crowley. You, Prince Gabriel, Regent of our Land, do you represent your brother the Prince Aziraphale before the goddess Béḃinn?”

Gabriel’s eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “It is my honor to do so.”

Both companions bow again and approach a different prince. Beelze takes Gabriel by the arm and leads him to the far side of the low, square table. They seat him and pour him tea from the black and red pot. They stay kneeling at his side. Their eyes drink in his face.

Crowley reaches out and takes both of Aziraphale’s hands in his. It brings the prince’s focus back to the companion. They smile at each other, slow and warm.

“Will you come to my table and let me serve you?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale feels the need to knit his fingers together and fidget. He grips Crowley’s hands instead.

“I would like that very much, my dear,” he admits and it makes Crowley break out into a bright, earnest smile. He leads the prince to the seat at Gabriel’s left and helps him settle on a cushion. Crowley kneels next to him and lifts the black and red iron tea pot.

“This is the formal tea of the companion,” he explains, pouring in a smooth and effortless motion. “Each meeting opens with this ceremony. It is a prayer to Béḃinn that our time together will be blessed.”

He fills Aziraphale’s _yunomi_ cup about halfway before pouring some for himself. Then he exchanges this pot for the larger, brassy teapot. Gabriel raises an eyebrow, but Beelze smiles.

“The first tea is that of every companion’s meeting,” they clarify, before inclining their head to the larger teapot. “The Pledge Bond tea is the ceremony that binds a patron to a companion. It is a commitment of passion and friendship.”

Crowley licks his lips and then looks into Aziraphale’s eyes. “This is my bonded promise as your consort,” he clears his throat, then pours the second tea into the first. It ripples out. The golden liquid mixes with the previous red tea like waves. “I will be at your side through laughter and pain. I will be your companion in light and in dark. I will protect you from the harm that befalls this world. I will desire you and heap affection onto your head, all under the blessing of Béḃinn, goddess of the courtesan.”

He reaches down and pulls one of Aziraphale’s hands from his lap. He guides him to hold onto the teapot. He wraps his fingers overtop Crowley’s and together they pour the golden tea into Crowley’s cup.

Verbally, Beelze guides him, “Do you, Prince Aziraphale bond your promise to your consort—to guide his steps as he stays at your side in joy and sorrow, day and night? Will you defend him as he protects you? Will you desire him and heap affection onto his head?”

Aziraphale rubs his thumb across Crowley’s hand and smiles when the companion’s breath catches. “I will do so, quite happily.”

Crowley guides the teapot down and then gestures that the should each take a teacup. They drink.

Beelze leaves the Prince Regent’s side and kneels between the prince and his companion. In their hands, they hold a set of multicolored ribbons.

“The Unity Cords handfast the consort to their patron,” they say with a mix of fondness and yearning. They do not look at Gabriel. It’s almost painful to watch.

They take two of the ribbons and tie them around Aziraphale’s forearm. “Do you willingly enter this bond?” they ask.

Aziraphale nods and smiles at Crowley. His eyes are suspiciously wet. Gabriel now rises from his cushion and sits to Crowley’s side. He selects two different ribbons and ties them about the companion’s arm.

Beelze questions as he does this, “And you, little brother, do you willingly enter this bond?”

“Yes,” he chokes out. Beelze smiles indulgently and then guides their hands together. Once linked, they begin to wrap the ribbons around each of their arms. They braid them over and under, tying their clasped hands together. After they are satisfied, they collect their paint pots and brushes. They begin with Aziraphale.

“What is your sigil?—it can be any symbol.”

Gabriel answers at the same time as Aziraphale, but their answers are very different.

“A flaming sword,” says the Prince Regent, who has selected this as his own coat of arms.

“A quill,” says the bound prince. The brothers exchange glances, but Crowley soothes Aziraphale with a pat on his leg. He smiles reassuringly.

Beelze also takes this in stride. They choose paints and begin. The sword handle starts at Aziraphale’s elbow and the blade flows across his arm and down his hand. Then, they paint a blue quill over it, so the two are like one weapon. The sharp tip of the sword and the nib of the quill bridge across onto Crowley’s hand. Beelze cleans their brush and selects new colors. The yellow and red flames lick both their wrists.

Then, they switch to Crowley’s arm and paint the swirling snake sigil from his temple. Its long, black and red body wraps around the sword and quill, and its head rests across Aziraphale’s hand. The painted symbols intertwine, only broken by the braided ribbons. It’s beautiful art.

Gabriel breathlessly comments, “You have a tremendous gift, Bee.”

Beelze dips their finger into Crowley’s teacup and brushes some of the liquid on their joined hands, then onto Crowley’s sigil. They repeat the same actions with the tea from Aziraphale’s cup.

Thus finished, they declare, “You are bonded in pledge and blessed by Béḃinn.”

Crowley’s tear-bright eyes sparkle. He leans forward and Aziraphale meets his kiss halfway. It’s innocent at first, but Crowley’s tongue is devilish and it licks into Aziraphale’s mouth. It’s a needy, desperate thing that drags a wanton moan from the prince.

Crowley threads his unbound hand into the curls at the base of Aziraphale’s neck. It’s enough to drive the prince to action. He grabs his consort by the bicep and tugs him closer. They deepen their kiss until Beelze’s remark to their little brother breaks them apart.

“If you fuck up my art, I will skin you alive.”

Crowley gives a breathy, but ardent laugh. “I always liked it when the paint is smeared in passion.”

“You can damn well wait until it’s dry. Drink your tea,” Beelze buzzes. Their irritation stops almost immediately because they look at Gabriel, who is watching them with open lust.

“Might I ask you to join me, Bee,” he asks, his voice rough, “in my chambers?”

Beelze flushes and stands smoothly. “It would be an honor, my prince.”

The wonders never end, apparently, on this birthday. Gabriel has left a meal early and is now taking his much-missed companion to bed. They slip away without a backward glance. Crowley takes this as permission.

“I don’t much feel like tea,” he admits and pulls Aziraphale to his feet and toward his canopied bed.

They stumble repeatedly because Crowley won’t stop kissing the prince with deep, exquisite exploration. He mixes his desire with nibs and licks until Aziraphale isn’t sure how long he will be able to keep his knees from buckling.

Crowley helps him to sit on the edge of the bed. The mosquito netting bunches and pulls taut under Aziraphale’s bottom. Crowley uses his unbound hand to untie the knot at the prince’s elbow before undoing his own. Carefully, he pulls the plait free.

“What will you do with it?” Aziraphale asks because Crowley is staring at it in awe.

“It hangs above the head of our bed,” the companion admits, then blushes. “My bed, I mean.”

Aziraphale reaches out a tentative finger and traces the line of the paint that is dried on Crowley’s forearm. He means it to be curious, but it comes out more seductive. Crowley’s eyes darken and he smirks hungrily. 

“Come, my angel,” he growls, seductively, “let’s celebrate your birthday.”

And he begins to pull off the prince’s coat and tunic. The fabric is discarded on the floor without concern for its ruin. As soon as he is free, Aziraphale launches forward and presses a desperate kiss on Crowley’s mouth. His companion gives a groan and then steps out of kissing range to unpin his sari from his shoulder. The fabric uncoils like a snake from around his hips, then he surges toward the prince and pushes him onto the bed properly.

The mosquito netting whispers all around them in the breeze off the ocean. It brings goosebumps up on Aziraphale’s legs as Crowley pulls his breeches free. The companion never blinks. Instead, he holds the prince’s gaze. It’s hot and aching in the candlelight.

His long-fingered hand circles Aziraphale’s ankle. He uses this hold to lift the prince’s leg and press a messy, wet kiss to the back of his calf. He mouths at his skin, ignoring the blond hair, and tracing new paths up to his knee.

He pauses only to set Aziraphale’s right leg down and lift his left in turn. It receives the same open-mouthed kisses. All of the blood in the prince’s body seems to be relocating to his groin. He feels lightheaded.

“I want to see you,” he commands gently. Crowley gives a devilish grin and presses another kiss to the prince’s ankle. Then, once he’s returned Aziraphale’s foot to the bed, he moves with serpentine poise and pulls his tunic over his head in one movement. Dark red panties, the style and cut famously associated with courtesans, strain with the companion’s erection.

Aziraphale stares, greedily. Crowley kneels there between the prince's legs and lets his talented hand palm down his own chest. He teases his nipples, then thumbs at his navel.He swirls his index finger in the red hairs that grow there. Aziraphale’s mouth falls open with a throaty groan. Crowley leers, sensually, spurred on by the prince’s response. Aziraphale sits up on the pillows and tips toward the companion, aching to see and touch.

Once he’s sure that the prince has a better view, Crowley’s hand dips under the fabric of his panties and he tosses his head with a grunt of satisfaction. His curls dance. He turns his wrist so that his movements clearly translate through the fabric. He lightly touches his cock, tracing its shaft down one side and then up the other so Aziraphale gets a more complete picture of it’s length and width.

He gives a happy, drawn-out hum and then pushes his panties down around his thighs. His prick jumps out and bobs in the cool night air. Aziraphale licks his lips like he’s starving and reaches out to grab Crowley’s shoulder. He hauls him into an impatient kiss and runs his palms up and down Crowley’s sides. The companion gives another pleased hum.

Crowley’s skin is hot under his fingers and Aziraphale feels drunk on it. He smooths his hands across his ribs and stomach. His muscles are taut. Aziraphale’s thumb brushes his areola and Crowley immediately breaks their kiss to begin nipping and sucking at the prince’s jawline. Encouraged, the prince strokes down over Crowley’s hips. He pauses at his thighs to hook his thumbs into Crowley’s panties and push them further down his legs.

The _oiran_ pulls away to shuck these and then slides into Aziraphale’s laps with his knees bracketing the prince’s hips. Aziraphale cannot help the whimper that escapes him. He drapes his arms over the prince’s shoulders and rests their foreheads together.

“I can make you feel so good. What do you want?” he purrs.

A million visions swim across Aziraphale’s mind and indecision cripples him. He gives a raw, indecisive whine.

“Easy, angel,” Crowley soothes, kissing him tenderly. “I’ll take care of you.”

He leans the prince back down and finishes undressing him. Before Aziraphale can comment, the consort lines his body up over top his. He holds his weight on one palm and his knees. His hair shimmers like copper in the candlelight and Aziraphale is unable to control himself. He grabs the back of Crowley’s head and yanks him down into a hungry kiss. This is broken as Crowley wraps his hand around both their cocks and drags a long, low keen from the prince’s mouth.

Crowley chuckles and continues to stroke them together. His eyes sweep across Aziraphale’s face with burning darkness. He twists his wrist and Aziraphale bucks up immediately with a cry.

“Mm, yeah,” Crowley croons and leans down to nibble on Aziraphale’s ear.

It’s been years since someone has touched him like this. He feels like he’s coming apart even before he is close to orgasm.

“My dear, _Crowley_ ,” he stutters and tightens his grip on the back of Crowley’s neck. His other hand holds the companion’s hip and guides him closer. As if reading his mind, Crowley shifts his weight and thrusts down into his hand.There is a new hot, velvet rush across Aziraphale’s shaft and he tips his head back onto the pillow.

“Tighter? Faster? Tell me what you like,” Crowley entreats gruffly into his ear. The air from his words stokes something in Aziraphale.

“Yes, yes,” he chants and Crowley is good for both. His grip tightens and his hips snap quicker. Aziraphale feels a trickle of sweat slip from Crowley’s neck onto his fingers. He thrusts upward to meet Crowley’s rolling hips. It surprises a noise out of the companion’s throat and he nips at the prince’s lower lip before soothing the bite with a kiss.

He must feel Aziraphale’s trembling, because he deepens the kiss and speaks against his mouth, “I want to see you come apart, my prince.”

It’s all the permission he needs. All the feelings coalesce and he hurtles over into bliss. As he pulses out his release, his toes curl. His back arches so much that only his heels and shoulder blades fully touch the mattress. The shifted position forces Crowley completely flush with the prince and he stutters and comes with a grunt of pleasure.

Aziraphale collapses back onto the bed, shaking with overstimulation as Crowley continues to stroke him with even, measured caresses. Aziraphale releases his strangle hold on the _oiran’s_ hip and clasps his wrist to stop him.

Crowley smiles indulgently, then leans down to capture the prince’s mouth in another kiss. This one is lazy and doting. Aziraphale releases the companion’s hand to cup his cheek. His other hand pets down Crowley’s spine from his neck. Crowley’s own hand is drifting up Aziraphale’s side. He strokes his love handles with gentle fingers.

They kiss unhurriedly. With each swipe of tongue and touch of lips, Aziraphale feels more boneless. Finally, Crowley leans back and touches his thumb to the prince’s swollen bottom lip. Then he climbs off Aziraphale’s hips and slides from the bed. The prince begins to complain, but the _oiran_ does not go far. He dips some of the warm water from the bucket that Shadwell delivered into a black soapstone pitcher. He carries this and its matching basin to the bedside table along with a linen cloth.

Crowley ducks under the mosquito netting before reaching back out to pour the water into the basin. He dips the cloth into the warm water and then meditatively begins to wipe Aziraphale clean. He starts at his groin, then moves up his stomach and his chest. He rinses the cloth and then returns to attend to Aziraphale’s arms and legs. He pauses to press a kiss to the back of each hand before rinsing the cloth again.

It’s like a dance. Aziraphale should comment that there is a perfectly serviceable tub, or that he is capable of cleaning himself up, but Crowley is simply too beautiful to interrupt. He finishes wiping at Aziraphale’s neck before taking the cloth to the seed that is splashed across his own body. Unlike the adoration he used on the prince, this is mechanical and quick.

Once he’s dropped the linen back into the basin, he stretches out beside the prince. He lays on his hip and props up on his elbow to look down at Aziraphale. At this angle, the dried paint stands out dark on his freckled skin.

Aziraphale reaches out, hesitantly. Crowley leans toward his questing hand and offers a reassuring smile. It’s barely a twitch of his lips, but it encourages the prince. He touches Crowley’s cheek with the back of his hand, then rolls his fingers up so that his knuckles trace the consort’s cheekbone. From there, he charts his nose and cupid’s bow. Aziraphale turns his hand to allow his fingertips to stroke over his eyebrows and down to cup his chin.

Crowley’s eyelids drift closed and his lashes flutter on his cheeks with each brush of the prince’s fingers.

“My prince—“ he breathes.

“Aziraphale. Please, call me Aziraphale,” the prince replies, before pulling Crowley into another kiss.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley chants before diving in for a deeper kiss. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.” With each repetition of his name, their kisses become more desperate.

Unable to handle much more, the prince rolls them over and pushes his consort into the bed. He covers him with his body and continues to sweep kiss after kiss into his lovely mouth.

The tide rolls in and the waves hiss their songs. The moon rises. The candle burns to nothing. The passage of time means nothing as Prince Aziraphale and his consort map each other over and again.


	3. A View to the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to Beelze and Gabriel's history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please sing "rewind" in the style of "Satisfied" from Hamilton.

_Two years ago_

It’s September and heat rolls off the sand. Beelze glances down onto the shore to see the waves of water meet those of optical illusion. Today, Gabriel will marry a princess from a faraway land. He despises her. She hates him.

Beelze feels numb.

There is a crate by the door that holds their House's Pledge Bond teapot and Unity Cords. It has not been opened in the six years that they have warmed the Prince Regent’s bed, nor will it ever be opened for them.

The Prince Regent is full of excuses:

“Bee, my mother will remove me from the line of inheritance,” he’d said as he traced pictures on their hip with his fingers.

“The Queen will force her council to declare me illegitimate,” he’d said as he was fitted for his wedding robes.

“I must marry Princess Uriel to secure an end to the war,” he’d said as he’d clutched a letter from his advisor and stared out the window at the distant horizon.

“Sandalphon believes that Princess Uriel’s nation will withdraw from the treaty if I have a consort,” he’d said as he’d watched them pack their travel cases.

And through it all, they’d held onto the fleeting hope that he would change his mind and beg them to pour the tea. They’d been his consort in all but name for six years. They’ve touched his body, listened to his concerns, advised his heart, hosted his guests, respected his wishes, and protected him from grief. Beelze’s only request in return is a tea ceremony. He will not hear of it.

Gabriel opens the door into their room and they hear the swish of his ermine-lined cloak.

“You’re going?” he asks, curiously.

They continue to stare blindly into the distance. “You know I am. You’ve known for weeks.”

Gabriel shifts his weight and fabric rustles.

“The wedding feast is going to be something to write home about. I’m sure you’ll find—“

“I’m not staying for the wedding, Gabriel.”

He stands rigid and, with a shaky voice asks, “When?”

They finally turn to face him. Their stomach is heavy with nausea. “The carriage is on its way.”

Gabriel’s eyes shine with tears, but he remains rooted where he stands. “I can’t avoid this, Bee. For our nation, I have to do this.”

It’s the final blow. Beelze leans into their years of training and approaches him on nimble feet. They reach up and cup his cheek.

“It is with the blessings of Béḃinn that I leave you and our time together,” they whisper, their voice breaking. “May bountiful fortunes find you in the days to come.”

He sobs and presses his face into their hand. “Please, please, Bee, stay.”

They linger. Beelze memorizes his face and his scent. Then they stretch up and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Goodbye, my prince.”

And they leave the palace.

Crowley waits by the carriage, leaned against the side. He is mesmerized by the flow of the capital around him, but his sunglasses hide his gaze. When he sees them though, he straightens. He holds out open arms and they walk right into them.

Crowley clutches their small person to him, completely surrounding them in his long arms. Once there, they emit a desperate cry and begin to sob. Crowley pets their head, strokes their back, and rocks them. He helps them into the carriage as servants load their luggage. They wrap themselves back into Crowley’s arms and cry into his chest.

Beelze cries as the carriage pulls away and as it rocks through the traffic of the city. They cry as the last view of the palace disappears. They cry as they wind through the dusty roads of the less affluent districts. They cry until they’ve exhausted themselves. Then they sleep.

Beelze wakes to find their head pillowed in Crowley’s lap. He balances a sketchpad against the wall. His charcoal makes a soothing scratch that complements the jostle of the carriage.

“Good nap?” he queries as if they’re still living in the days of his _oiran_ training. His sunglasses are perched on top of his head.

“Fuck you,” they growl, emptily. They swing their feet off the seat and rub at their burning eyes. Crying is exhausting.

Crowley sets the sketchpad into his lap and continues to draw. They peek out from between their fingers and watch him shade a portrait of them sleeping in his lap.

“You’re going soft,” they grumble with a tear-ruined voice.

“Comes from getting old,” he admits, before looking at them over his sunglasses. “I missed you.”

“Fucking soft,” they complain, but return the soft look. “I missed you, too, little brother.”

Crowley looks back to his portrait and uses his finger to shade their dark hair. “If it weren’t treason, I’d cut off his dick.”

This startles a laugh from Beelze. “They keep those royal jewels under lock and key—more so than the crown. You’d need an army.”

Crowley growls, low and predatory, “He hurt you. I don’t need an army.”

This sets Beelze off into a fresh set of hiccuping tears. Crowley throws his sketchpad across the carriage and tugs them into his lap. He enfolds them protectively in his arms, but when they burrow closer, he wraps his legs around them too. He’s a spindly shield.

As they weep, they find that they don’t mind.


	4. Overdue Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelze and Gabriel clear the air... and spend the night in his bed.

There are some parts of being with the Prince Regent that Beelze had forgotten. For one, the lack of privacy and anonymity. As they step out of Prince Aziraphale’s chambers three of the palace guards move into positions around Gabriel. Beelze tenses.

Gabriel pats their hand awkwardly, which rests in the crook of his elbow. He nods to the guards and the lantern holder rushes ahead to guide them through the shadowy courtyard and into the dark hallways.

The Prince Regent’s chambers, and where Beelze once lived, are in the keep, deeper in the palace. To access it, they must pass the dining hall and throne room where their evening began. Music, laughter, and chatter echo out of the rooms where hundreds of courtesans dance and eat.

The guards angle toward that room, but Gabriel continues on toward his chambers. Beelze allows themselves to be directed along. They climb a flight of stairs and enter an open seating area full of couches and chairs where the royal court spends their days reading, gossiping, and playing cards. They pass through this and up another flight of stairs.

Beelze can walk this floor with their eyes closed. They let the Prince Regent guide them to the large double doors of his suite. Much like other rooms in the palace, there is a receiving room first. To the left are Beelze’s old rooms, but Gabriel leads them right and into his private study. He opens the door for them and lets them go ahead of him.

Once they enter the room, Beelze’s breath catches. The room is a shrine to their six-year relationship. The walls are lined with Beelze’s art. Folded in the corner is the ebony-wood easel that Gabriel gave them for a birthday. A box of their nearly-dried-out paints rests beneath it. The rosewood pianoforte still commands the center of the room. Their last in-progress composition leans on the music rack.

Gabriel hunches in on himself and wraps his arms across his chest. Embarrassment radiates off of him. Beelze turns a slow circle and takes it all in. The companion freezes at the fireplace. Above the mantle is a shrine to Béḃinn. Deep red roses, oranges, and incense lay as offerings to the goddess. Shaking, they kiss their fingertips and brush it to their fly sigil before bowing low.

Prayers given, they address the Prince in confusion, “She isn’t your Household goddess.” 

Gabriel shuffles toward them, his chin tucked down to hide his continued shame. “She’s yours.” And he offers a reverent bow to Béḃinn’s shrine. He kisses his fingers and touches this to the offering bowl.

Beelze’s trembling moves to all of their body. They step backward and tumble onto the chaise lounge that used to be elsewhere in the room. It’s piled with blankets and pillows. The center of the chaise is worn down like a cavern. They brush their trembling fingers across it, noting the frayed brocade.

“You sleep here,” they realize.

Gabriel chances a glance at their face, then looks away, unable to hold their gaze. “I can’t sleep in our bed.”

It punches something deep in Beelze. “Your marriage bed isn’t welcoming?”

“No,” he clarifies, emphatically. “ _Our_ bed, Bee.”

And all the trembling stops immediately. Beelze’s heart thunders, but no longer in fear. They surge from their seat and jump into Gabriel’s arms. They climb him like a tree; they wrap their legs around his torso and grab his face in both their hands. They kiss him like they’ve wanted to for two years.

Gabriel is no less affected. He wraps his strong arms around their back and waist. His kisses taste of salt. As they pull back from his mouth, tears drip down his cheeks.

“I will build Béḃinn a temple. I will worship her every hour for bringing you back to me.” He kisses them again and begins to walk toward their bed. They seem to weigh nothing, wrapped around him. Beelze is unable to quit kissing him—first his lips, then his cheeks, then his nose, then his mouth again.

“What changed?” he asks as he rubs the small of their back.

“What do you mean?” they ask as they look into those beloved violet eyes. They kiss him passionately.

“After all my letters," he says, a little breathlessly, "what made you change your mind tonight?”

And Beelze goes stiff in his arms. “Letters?”

Gabriel has carried them to their bed, but he stops. “I wrote you every day. I hired a rider just to deliver my messages. I thought you were angry—“

“—I never received them. I thought you cast me aside once you’d wed.”

And they both freeze there, staring at each other.

“You still love me?” Beelze whispers.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets them on the foot of the bed and begins to strip with rapid precision. His robe, waistcoat, and tunic fall to the ground. Then, bathed in candlelight, his chest is visible.

Tattooed over his heart is a flaming sword surrounded by flying insects.

Beelze can’t breathe. They stand unsteadily and approach him with their hand outstretched. They lay their palm across his heart and tattoo.

“I was wrong. I was so wrong,” he murmurs, lovesick. “I am so glad you brought the ceremony's teapot.” Then he adds hurriedly, “If you’ll still have me.”

And they plant feet on the outside of his thighs to climb him again, this time using their weight to pull him off balance. He stumbles forward, trying to compensate for the change in his center of gravity. The pair collapses, barely making the foot of the bed.

Beelze kisses him and pulls him up the bed. They’re both tangled in mosquito netting, but neither is willing to release the other. Beelze yanks their sash and jacket off, while simultaneously trying to remove Gabriel’s breeches. Gabriel takes two handfuls of their tunic and yanks it so that it rips down the seams. He does not even pause to consider the cost of the fabric. Their cravat is still looped around their neck, but he’s trying to unclasp their bra instead.

While Gabriel struggles with the clasp of their bra, Beelze takes the moment to divest themselves and the Prince Regent of their breeches and undergarments. The bra sails away, landing somewhere out of sight and Gabriel palms their breasts. His thumbs strokes over their nibbles and plunders their mouth in a kiss.

They hook their feet into the Prince Regent’s back until he’s flush against them.

“Fuck me, my prince,” they croon into his ear and Gabriel reaches down to grab the base of his cock.

“Jesus, Bee,” he groans with a panicked blush. “That was a near thing.”

They giggle. They can’t help it. Gabriel looks up and locks eyes with Beelze and then begins to laugh too. Then, Beelze cups his face again and guides him into an insistent kiss. The laughter drifts away into pure arousal.

“I’m not going to be patient. Fuck me, _now_ , Gabriel.”

And he grabs their hips and angles them just right. He glides into them with a hard thrust. They’re surprisingly wet and he gives a groan. He drops his forehead onto their shoulder and pants.

Beelze takes this opportunity to flip them over and straddles Gabriel. They squeeze his hips with their knees and arch their back as they slide up his cock. Gabriel’s cheeks are reddened and his eyelashes flutter as Beelze grinds down again.

They set a steady pace of rising and falling; they let his length slide all the way out to the ridge of their lips and then envelopes him again all the way to his hilt. Gabriel claws at the sheet and rocks his hips up into Beelze. They know that he’s close. Before they can comment, one of his hands gives up their hold on the bedding and rubs the large pad of his thumb across their clit. A lightning bolt of pleasure rocks through the _oiran_.

There’s a rule that a companion should never climax before their guest. Gabriel apparently doesn’t care about that rule. He sets his jaw and thrusts up to meet them each time they drop down his cock. He pushes back their hood with his thumbnail and swirls his thumb in tight circles, then alternates to rubbing in tandem with their rhythm. Heat spreads from their groin and into the companion's belly. Their breath comes in puffs as they try to stave off their impending orgasm.

Gabriel seems to be in the same situation. Beelze knows that Gabriel chants out “yes” just before he comes. Therefore, at first, they don’t listen carefully to what he is moaning out. Then, they listen.

“Bee,” he cries, “sweetheart.” And there’s no stopping the orgasm that rips through Beelze. It’s like a tidal wave.

With their fresh slick and tight aftershocks, Gabriel keens. Beelze forces themselves to focus—they’re not a courtesan for nothing—and redoubles their efforts of riding his cock. Gabriel’s mouth falls open and he cries out again in a long croak. Beelze feels him come inside them.

“Bee,” he wails. All his muscles tighten, then go slack.

Beelze lets themselves fall onto his chest. They rest their cheek on his tattoo and listen to the slowing thump of his heart under their ear.

One of Gabriel’s arms drapes across their back and pats their shoulder companionably.

“Missed you,” he admits, still breathless.

They rub their cheek into his pectoral, “Missed you too, you idiot.”

The night presses into the room—around _their_ bed. “I love you,” they admit.

Gabriel’s other hand finds theirs and knits their fingers together. “I love you. Only you, Bee.”

And Beelze silently offers thanks to the goddess of the courtesan. How has this comedy of errors come to pass?

“You sent me letters?” they ask again.

Gabriel’s brow knits, “And gifts.”

“I wonder where those went.”

“Indeed,” he asks, then lifts their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of their hand. His voice is steely and dangerous, “Indeed.”

And they hear the authority in the Prince Regent’s tone. Whoever has orchestrated this will pay.

“Tomorrow,” the _oiran_ orders as they let their eyes close. “Sort it out tomorrow, my prince.”

He presses another kiss to their hand. “And so I shall.”

Gabriel’s heartbeats and the tide crashes against the cliffs. For the first time in years, they both feel at peace.


	5. The Foreign Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to the Prince Regent's wife, Princess Uriel, and the unfolding plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And nowwwwww into the conflict!

The Great War was between the Prince Regent’s realm and Princess Uriel’s home country. Her sister, the warrior queen Michael, refused to give up the hopes of extending her territory. She ordered attacks to their border. Her troops were decimated.

She ordered another attack on the border. Again, her armies retreated.

Finally, the Queen and her sister went to the battlefield themselves. There, standing on the far hill was a golden-haired soldier. The Prince Aziraphale, the youngest of their line of succession, led his brother’s troops into battle. When Queen Michael ordered a charge, she took to horseback and rode with her men. There, on the battlefield, she and Prince Aziraphale locked swords.

She admitted that he was a worthy opponent. When her sister eventually yielded her efforts, she offered her sister in marriage to broker peace. When this was accepted, both women assumed that Uriel would marry the warrior prince.

Uriel rode side-saddle into their fort and was met with a civil welcome from the prince.

“Hail and welcome!” Aziraphale called. “How was your ride, my dear lady?” He asked with an incline of the head as she was helped down from her horse.

Immediately, there was a problem. To anyone with observation skills, it was apparent that the warrior prince was not interested in women. Uriel offered an internal sigh. There was always a catch. Her ladies-in-waiting exchanged knowing looks.

“I have ridden further and harder than that, my lord,” Uriel informed, stiffly.

He inclined his head again. “But of course, we are both soldiers, are we not? There is nothing like an army on the move to make the backside ache.”

Uriel cracked a smile. Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled.

They dined in the fort that night with the prince’s men. Aziraphale was close to his men. They had mutual respect and friendship, much like Michael’s own court. Unlike many other lords, Aziraphale allowed his soldiers to in the fort’s main hall, laughing and drinking ale.

Uriel was pleased with the match. There might never be true love, but Aziraphale was intelligent and well-read. He was brave and kind. Even the fort was forgivable, as it was close to her sister. He would give her strong and brave children. The Princess was glad; many other royal matches had been worse.

Of course, that was the exact moment that Prince Sandalphon’s arrival was announced. He was a weaselly man with few royal graces. He strode into the room with a sweep of his ornate cloak.

“Brother!” he called to Aziraphale. The younger prince rose from his seat at the head of the table and met his brother with a slight bow. His displeasure was well-hidden, but Uriel saw it anyway.

“Sandalphon, what an honor.”

He joined them for dinner and spoke endlessly about the wonders of the capital without letting another speak. Uriel faked interest but found herself yawning. Soldiers offered to take watch instead of staying to host Sandalphon. Uriel wished she could join them.

At last, Aziraphale invited his brother and newly betrothed to his private library. There, each with a glass of sherry, he offered to read to them.

“I have a fascinating treatise on—“

“Quit boring the lady, brother.” Sandalphon shut Aziraphale down and the younger man shifted in his seat before suddenly leaving for bed.

Once he was gone, Sandalphon showed his true colors.

“I will not beat around the bush, my lady,” he began and Uriel stiffened. “My mother is ailing and rarely recognizes us. She is dying. My brother will take the throne—only he will take an _oiran_ as his royal spouse.” He sneered at this. “He’s weak.”

“And you are stronger?” she surmised. His eyes gleamed with ambition. 

“I intend to separate my brother and his companion. I believe we can manipulate him then.”

Uriel sipped her sherry. “You intend that I would marry Gabriel instead of Prince Aziraphale? You want me to control him for your plot?”

Sandalphon’s black eyes shone in the firelight. “I intend to remove my brothers from the line of succession.”

Uriel glared. “Shall I be the widow cast into a nunnery? Or on the run with my dethroned husband?”

The prince leaned forward and clasp his glass between his hands, “I was thinking that I would give you this principality to rule yourself. A new nation.”

Uriel’s heart leapt. No longer a pawn for her sister’s wars and political intrigue. Her own land to rule and protect. “So what’s the plan?”

Like a tragic play, there would be many, many casualties in Sandalphon’s plot. Act One took aim at the Prince Regent, his companion, and, unfortunately, the Prince Aziraphale. The narrative that reached the capital did not speak of the prince’s bravery on the battlefield, but of his inability to orchestrate a satisfactory treaty. 

Next, Sandalphon pinned letters that outlined his grand moments of negotiation, while Aziraphale stalled. He warned Gabriel of Uriel’s sensitivity to royal consorts and how Beelze’s presence could lead to more war.

Finally, Uriel rode the week’s ride under the Prince Regent’s coat of arms. The people of the land lined the road and called out good wishes to the future queen. Sandalphon sat in his barouche carriage and napped. Aziraphale, alternatively, rode beside her and told her myths of his home. He was overjoyed to be called home to the palace. He was ignorant of the power play going on around him.

When he rode into his brother’s palace, he expected a hero’s welcome. Instead, he was stripped of his command and shuttered in his brother’s palace. He hid his sorrow in his studies. Meanwhile, Uriel met Gabriel at the altar. His face was riddled with grief and heartache.

Uriel considered her integrity as she bowed to light incense. Guilt rolled in her stomach—but ambition overrode it.

Their marriage bed was cold. Certainly, Gabriel did his husbandly duties. His seed even took twice, but Sandalphon helped Uriel to end her pregnancies. Each time, the guilt resurfaced. Each time, she returned to her private study and pulled a map from where she’d hidden it along the underside of her desk. She traced the borders of her new land with her fingernail. Her future nation where she would rule alone.

Sometimes, she would look into his private study and the shrine he’d made of Beelze’s belongings. Their silk robes, gowns, and suits were wrapped in delicate tissue paper and kept in a trunk. Their art supplies and musical instruments simply waited for their return.

Of course, the Prince Regent did not know about the bundle of letters that lined Uriel’s own trunk. The messenger that Gabriel paid to travel to the House of Acheron each week was easy to bribe. Sandalphon admitted that it took less money than he’d expected.

At first, she had felt that bubble of guilt as she read his love letters to his absent companion. She imagined what it was like to be so loved. On parchment, he begged and apologized. He offered them gifts (These were harder to hide, as some of them were physically large. Somewhere deep in the ocean, books, scrolls, art supplies, and a harp now housed fish.). He repeated his love again and again.

As his grief mellowed, his letters became more episodic journals. His respect for Beelze was clear in each line, even then. He asked their advice on policy issues. He wrote to them about the sea and the state of the court. He worried that he did not have an heir.

All the while, Sandalphon became increasingly impatient.

“He needs to step down, he’s cracking, like our father. He’s speaking about building a shrine in his quarters.” He paced up and back across Uriel’s balcony. “We need to take some initiative.”

And Act Two began.

“But brother, he’s going to be _forty_ ,” Sandalphon wheedled. “I think we should let him see what is out there as potential partners.”

Gabriel stood at a table and looked over piles of huge parchments. "I did not think that you approved of courtesans?"

Advisors looked from Gabriel to Sandalphon. Uriel sipped wine from a chair near her husband’s position. Sandalphon looked momentarily out-maneuvered. The princess decided to take matters into her own hands.

“We could have a ball,” Uriel added, sweetly. Gabriel glanced up at her input.

“Would you like that?” he asked.

Moments like this made hating him hard. “I always like a gala.”

Gabriel nodded, decisively. “So you shall have a gala. Inform Aziraphale that we will celebrate his birthday in style and he shall have the consort of his choice. A gift from his loving brothers.”

Bitterness and yearning laced into these words. Uriel drained her glass.

Act Two saw the messenger (who should have ridden out to Beelze’s District each week) actually traveling to the House of Acheron to deliver an invitation to said ball. Of course, the Prince Regent was completely ignorant of this summons.

And then things went sideways.

The _oirans_ of the House of Acheron captured the attention of the Prince Regent and Prince Aziraphale. Instead of being embarrassed and ignored by Beelze, Gabriel was forgiven. At least, according to the sounds coming from his bedroom, that’s what Uriel assumes.

It’s late when she stumbles into the receiving area of their chambers. The door to Gabriel’s private study is open, but the bedroom door is not. A series of drawn-out moans and sighs emanate from behind the closed door. Uriel pauses there in the doorway to the Prince Regent’s study. She hears her husband call out another person’s name with such longing and love that Uriel turns away, nearly in tears.

She enters her own study and heads to her desk. She pulls the key from the cord around her neck and unlocks the roll top desk. She yanks her map down from its hiding place and spreads it on the floor. Uriel drops down next to it and smooths her skirts. There is the fort where she spent those first days in this country. It will become her palace. Already, she has refurbishment plans in mind.

Another cry springs from her husband’s rooms. Uriel clasps her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. This is not what she’d expected. She doesn’t know exactly what she had expected, to be honest.

Someone touches her shoulder and she gives a cry of surprise. Sandalphon is bent over into her space.

“Your Royal Highness?” he asks, clearly hearing the sex that the Prince Regent is enjoying. "Are you well?"

She swipes at her eyes and efficiently rolls up her map. “Of course. It’s late and my eyes are weary from these low lights.”

He offers her his hand and helps her stand. “As you say, my lady.” He watches her as she returns the map to her desk. She rolls the desk closed and locks it. The ribbon dangles down the front of the desk.

A bit of love would be nice, she thinks. She turns quickly with a whisper of skirts. “Do you think I might find a nice courtesan to entertain me tonight?”

Sandalphon looks at her knowingly, “Are you lonely, Uriel?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she studies the candle that dances in the wall sconce. Her brother-in-law steps toward her.

“Would you like to companion tonight? Or someone who _knows_ you?” he smooths, but it’s ugly and insincere. The idea of him touching her is nauseating.

She swallows. “I think I’ll seek out a companion from the multitude downstairs.” She clears her throat, then leaves him in her study. She marches down into the ballroom. Her heart hammers in her throat.

Most of the courtesans in the room are drunk or high. Many of them are engaged in touches and affections of every degree of sensuality, even in the public room.However, a woman with short blue hair approaches her with a beautiful curtsey. She is strangely sober among the crowd.

“My lady?” she quires, clearly seeing the princess’ distress. “Are you well, my lady?”

Uriel feels flush and looks over the woman’s shoulder. A lean man with matching blue hair gives her a sweeping bow.

He smiles at her, also clearly concerned. “My lady, this is my little sister; how may we be of service—“

“Come to my chambers,” Uriel interrupts. “Both of you.”

They surround her, one on each side. She guides them with her body, but they soothe her just with their touches. Suddenly, she understands the value of finding affection this way. They ask after her health repeatedly in multiple ways. It makes her wonder how she looks. They climb the flights of stairs and the two _oirans_ make polite conversation. They ask if they can make her some tea or play music for her. She assumed that they would go straight to bed, but the option for waiting relaxes her.

“I’ve never done this,” she admits and the little sister smiles kindly.

“My lady, you are very brave,” she says. "Many people are not sure what to expect when they engage a companion. Perhaps we could sit and discuss that, first?"

The male companion smiles serenely and adds, "Perhaps we could just take care of you? Help you relax and rest?"

They enter the receiving room and Uriel can see that Sandalphon has left the door to her private study open. She motions for the two companions to enter. The man holds the door for them and the woman, with her arm still around the princess’s waist, guides them in. Uriel's heart is still pounding, but if she's honest, it's more out of joy than fear. The door to her study closes and the princess stops midstep.

The male companion smiles when he sees a lap harp. “Do you play, my lady?”

But Uriel can’t hear him. All she can hear is the buzzing in her ears. Her rolling desk is unlocked and open. Her map is gone.

“Oh gods, no,” she moans, in horror. She runs to her desk and shuffles paper around, but it’s no good. The giant map of her own devising is gone.

“Your Royal Highness,” the woman companion asks, concerned, “are you all right?”

Uriel spins to reply and sees that the door to her bed-chamber is also open. The light from her bedside candle illuminates enough of the room for her to see inside. On the far wall, her trunk stands open.

“Gods preserve me,” she laments and runs into the room. Winter clothes that were stored on top have been thrown on the floor. These hid the bundle of Gabriel’s letters to Beelze. They are gone. Uriel’s legs give out and she crumples to the floor.

The blue-haired companions surround her and comfort her, one offers her a glass of water and the other fans her. She barely hears them over the panic that she is about to be exposed as a traitor.


	6. Red Sails in the Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot is exposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Crowley wakes as the sun is rising over the sea. Aziraphale is snoring into his ear and sea birds are calling to one another. Like the first time they saw each other, they are drawn together, even in sleep. It takes a bit of wiggling for Crowley to escape the prince’s unconscious hold and the sheets that wrap around his legs.

Just as he’s celebrating his escape, his left hip seizes up. It happens, of course, for people with lifelong pain who exacerbate their injuries. Sex, unfortunately, can sometimes leave his hips and back sore.

He can’t move the way he should, so he gets twisted in the mosquito netting and falls out the bed. It startles Aziraphale awake with a snort.

“My dear?” he asks blearily.

  
Crowley lays on the floor, truly embarrassed. His left foot is trapped in the netting, but he is in too much pain to fold over and free himself.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks again, this time more alert and more concerned.

“Down here,” the companion finally admits.

The prince peers over the edge of the bed and blinks. “You appear to be in a bit of a pickle.” He slides off the bed and down into a crouch. He takes Crowley’s foot in hand and pulls the netting loose. “There you are, my darling. I must admit that I like you near me—the bed wants to snare you and keep you with me, too.”

A slight blush stains his cheeks and Crowley smiles. “Thank you for the rescue.” And he tries to hide the grimace of pain as he rolls onto his side to stand.

Judging by Aziraphale’s immediate reaction, he was unsuccessful. “Crowley, did you get hurt?”

He grumbles an indiscriminate noise, “No, it’s an old injury. It just flares up sometimes.”

Aziraphale slides his arm under Crowley’s and lifts him up. Crowley tries to get his legs under him, but once he puts weight onto his left side, he gives a cry of pain.

“Damn,” he curses through clenched teeth. He hisses as he tries again.

“My darling,” Aziraphale admonishes and hefts more of Crowley’s weight. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Crowley gives a negative noise. “Need the chamber pot. Then I can do some stretches. I’ll be good after that, I promise, angel.”

The prince nods, unconvinced, but helps him to the far side of the room anyway. He pushes open a hidden door and Crowley admits he’s impressed. A hidden chamber pot!

Only, once they’re inside he’s stunned. “Is that a cistern? For the tub?” he asks with disbelief.

Aziraphale’s expression shows a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. “Of course, only the best for my consort.”

Crowley continues to stare at the barrel. “No more hauling water,” he draws in awe.

“It’s heated, as well,” Aziraphale comments and Crowley whips to look at him in disbelief.

Then, he pushes aside the screen to show the toilet. Crowley stares. He’s never seen such a thing. Instead of a ceramic bowl that is easily lifted to be emptied, there is a stone bench with a hole in it.

“That’s not a chamber pot,” he comments stupidly.

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. “My dear, do you not have indoor amenities? I mean—of course, you do now—but in your home—er, your House?”

Crowley pulls his arm from around Aziraphale’s neck and limps in behind the screen. He balances his weight on the wall behind the bench with a wince. He hears Aziraphale turn away while he pisses. He decides to answer his prince.

“Our District is poor. I think we might be really far behind, technology-wise. I wouldn’t even know. I’ve never seen things like this. Don’t know what you don’t know, right?”

Behind him, he hears Aziraphale adjust something, and then there is a gush of water. Crowley finishes and turns stiffly. Water pours out of the cistern into the tub.

“Shall I bathe you, my prince?” Crowley asks, with a flirtatious smirk. He ignores the pull of his injury and slinks toward the tub with a tempting roll to his hips. Unfortunately, he’s not limber enough for that yet and instead of sauntering, he stumbles. Aziraphale grabs him and pulls him back to his feet.

“Perhaps, later, my dear,” he replies, worriedly. “Let’s get you in the hot water and see if that helps.”

Crowley blinks back tears. “It’s bone damage, my prince. It just flares up sometimes.”

Aziraphale tugs him closer to his chest. He looks guilty. “And too much—umm, exercise?—makes it worse?”

Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s collar bone. “The carriage ride did the worst of it, to be honest. It’s hard to sit still for too long without pain. I think I got through yesterday on sheer adrenaline… and,” he pauses to look into the prince’s eyes, “you.”

Aziraphale gives a little joyful wiggle and lifts Crowley into the tub. Crowley gives an undignified squeak. The prince is _strong_. Then his lower half is surrounded by hot water and he groans in pleasure. He reclines into the water immediately.

“Oh, angel,” he whimpers and goes limp.

Aziraphale looks down at him with open affection. He excuses himself to the toilet. Once out of the prince’s view, he gives a tremendous expression of pain. He rolls his stiff hips and lifts his legs up onto the edges of the tub. The pressure recedes and he sighs in relief.

He hears Aziraphale move over to the tub. He turns a tap and water stops trickling into the tub. He ignores the basin and pitcher that rest on the table beside him and instead dips his hands into the hot water near Crowley’s legs and then lathers them with a bar of rosemary soap. If he innocently brushes against the companion’s ass, then that’s neither here nor there.

“I’m going back to bed,” the prince admits. “Call me if you need help to get out?”

Crowley smiles in agreement, knowing he’ll do nothing of the sort. Aziraphale dries his hands on a towel, then lays it out for Crowley next to the basin. He looks back at the companion twice as he leaves the ensuite.

Alone for the first time in nearly two weeks, Crowley takes a deep breath and begins to parse through these life-changing events.

He begins with a review of his last week-long overnight with some insipid women who was burning through her parents’ money. Then, he thinks back to the panic of packing up and leaving his home. He turns the silent, tense days of traveling at a breakneck speed over in his mind. Then, the events turn sweeter.

Imagine a nobody bastard son dancing and flirting with a prince! And, with a genuine smile at the paint that decorates his arm, imagine meeting someone he’d never dreamed existed, let alone would give him a second glance.

He knows he’s desirable. The long list of people he has entertained as an _oiran_ proves that. But to be desired by someone of Aziraphale’s character? Inconceivable.

He won’t miss the world of the companion. He won’t miss being told who to entertain, even if they were abhorrent. He always knew he’d make a bid for his freedom one day. However, he never expected to have this sort of comfort when he left the House of Acheron. Indoor toilets and hot water cisterns that attach to personal tubs sound like fantasies.

He reaches out for the bar of soap that Aziraphale used. It smells finer than the olive oil soap he’d grown up on. How strange that something considered the height of luxury in his District is only middling in the capital.

He lathers with the bar and works it over his chest and shoulders. He avoids cleaning his lower half until he can no longer ignore it. Then, disregarding the twinges of pain, he scrubs at his lower body.

Once his skin is clean, he scoots forward in the tub and dunks his head under the water. He scrubs his face and his long hair. Another dunk and the bubbles soak into the now-gray bathwater. He retracts his legs into the tub and blindly seeks out the drain. The tub empties and he takes a steadying breath before pulling himself up.

His hip throbs, but holds his weight. He grimaces and hauls himself out of the quickly receding water. There is a thick, black towel resting on the counter where Aziraphale left it. He rubs it across his wet skin and is delighted to find it large enough to wrap around himself almost two times.

He limps out into the bedchamber. In the daylight, he can see just how messily Beelze and he left the room. Their rapid set up for the Unity Ceremony apparently left housekeeping to be desired. Of course, his and the prince’s clothes are scattered everywhere too. He staggers over to the bureau and opens its doors. One side has a few hanging robes and the other is lined with drawers.

No time like the present. Crowley takes extra care to bend slowly as he pulls his garments from his trunk and adds them to his wardrobe. Apparently, he is expected to have a great deal more clothes, because once he’s emptied his trunk, there is still far more space. He selects a simple outfit of black breeches and tunic. His wet hair soaks into the shoulders of the tunic. He slides on his sunglasses as he grabs a comb, along with his other toiletry items, and heads back into the ensuite.

He’s delighted to find that shaving and cleaning his teeth is much easier with this indoor plumbing craze. He enjoys watching his face in the mirror as he combs his hair. He arranges his items on the counter and beams. His items next to his fancy tub. Will the wonders never cease?

He makes another trip out to collect his basin and pitcher from the bedside table. He wonders if Aziraphale will be offended if he trades it out for the one already in place. He dumps the dirty water from the night before down the tub drain and rinses it clean from the cistern. While these drain on the counter, he shuffles into the joint seating area and to gather all the tea items.

He bows and kisses his sigil when he collects the Pledge Bond teapot, offering an extra prayer of gratitude as he does so. He owes the goddess so much—he should assemble an altar for her in his room.

“Why are you doing _that_?” a high, childish voice asks.

Crowley turns with a raised brow of question to face a curly-haired boy who is holding a small broom and bucket.

“It’s a prayer,” he answers as he struggles to stand. His hips are still very tight.

“You pray to a teapot?” the boy continues to question, still looking incredulous. “Do you pray to other dishes?”

Crowley collects a crate to carry the items into the other room.

“My goddess blesses special tea sets for my job. I pray to thank her for the honor,” he offers with a shrug. “So, yes, I suppose I do pray to a teapot.”

The boy thinks about this before he squats back before the fireplace and brushes the ashes into the bucket. “Do you like your goddess?”

Crowley purses his lips thoughtfully. “She’s taken care of me.” He shrugs. “She’s pretty silent if I’m honest.”

The boy nods. “I think all gods are too busy to talk to us.” He stacks a new cord of wood into the firebox. “You’re the new prince, right?”

Crowley slowly collects the tea dishes into the crate. “I am Prince Aziraphale’s consort. I’m not a prince. You can call me Crowley.”

The boy stands and dusts his hands on his pants. “I’m Adam.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Crowley offers just as his stomach rumbles loudly. Adam looks at him thoughtfully.

“Madam Tracy just made breakfast. Brian and me’ll bring up the table.”

Crowley has no idea who Madam Tracy is or why he’ll need a table. “Do I need to call for breakfast?” he asks slowly. Adam doesn’t seem bothered that he doesn’t know the routine.

“Nah, the prince eats at the same time each morning. I’m supposed to be out of here already.” He shrugs like he’s not a servant on a time table. Crowley reaches out and tousles the boy’s hair.

“Don’t get caught,” he orders affectionately and pulls his glasses down to wink at the boy.

Adam grabs his supplies and trots out the door. “I’ll be back with the table,” he calls over his shoulder.

With a grin and a strange hitch in his gait, Crowley carries all the tea dishes to the tub and scrubs them. They join his basin in line on the counter to dry. As he stands this time, his hip seems to have loosened up. He grins.

He reenters their bedroom and collects their discarded clothing. As he stands again, he sees Aziraphale. The sun is shining in the open balcony and lights the prince’s hair to gold. Crowley’s heart flutters. Hastily, he throws their clothes at the chaise and hopes some of these make his target.

A different sort of hunger settles into Crowley’s stomach. He drifts back to the bed and slips under the mosquito netting. Aziraphale is tightly curled with one hand under his pillow and the other tucked under his chin. The companion considers his options before nestling in behind the prince. He molds his body around Aziraphale’s. He pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the bedside table. One arm slides under the pillow to find the prince’s hand and the other drapes across his waist.

The prince rumbles something like a purr and wiggles back into Crowley’s embrace. Once snugly there, he gives a sigh of contentment and falls into a deeper sleep. Beyond the gauze of their bed, children’s voices complain about moving furniture. He listens to the scraping of wood and then the closing of a door. He sighs, pleased, and listens to the waves.

A companion must never be bored. Tedium is most of their day. Even laying next to a beautiful man without any diversion can be dull. He often must entertain himself.

Today, he takes in the view next to him. He studies Aziraphale’s shoulder and learns the way the light touches his pale skin. He touches the ridge of the prince’s ribs and memorizes how he breathes. Crowley cards his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and traces the shell of his ear.

He really tries not to wake him.

At some point, however, the skin at the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder is too enticing. Crowley kisses, sucks, and nibbles at it. He laves it with his tongue and worries it with his teeth. He feels the prince wake to his attentions.

Under his administrations, Aziraphale breathing becomes ragged and his sighs of pleasure grow equally rough. His hand clutches Crowley’s and holds it against his chest. Crowley applies another layer of kisses to the skin he’s been teasing.

Then he pushes Aziraphale onto his back and pulls down the covers to free the prince’s morning-hard cock. Crowley licks his lips and immediately applies his mouth to the prince’s erection. Usually, he’d drag this out with teasing kisses and licks. This morning, however, he’s feeling a bit impatient. He sucks the prince’s prick into his mouth and licks the underside of his shaft as he does so.

There is no way that Crowley could describe the lustful noises that Aziraphale makes when he is held between tongue and lips. They are sinfully good. Crowley lets his jaw relax and his hours of training lead him. He sinks down on Aziraphale’s cock and takes him deep into his throat. He hums. The prince immediately bucks up and drives himself deeper.

Crowley lets himself drift away with the delight of bringing his partner pleasure. He hums and sucks as the prince fucks into his mouth. Aziraphale’s hands can’t seem to find where to hold on. They clasp at the bedding, then Crowley’s shoulders, then into his hair, then onto his back. All the while, the prince makes little staccato “ah! ah! ah!” sounds that are barely audible.

Crowley pulls back and applies all his attention to the head of Aziraphale’s cock.He sucks on his foreskin and rolls it with his tongue before he pinches this between his lips and tugs. This makes the prince give an entirely new set of noises. His hips jerk and his eyes flutter closed. And Crowley takes the opportunity to bob his head down and he engulfs Aziraphale in his mouth once more. His cock slides into his throat with a hitch from the prince’s hips.

He keens, airy, and needy. “Cr—Crowley—“

It’s the warning he needs to pull back just enough to hold the prince on his tongue as he spurts hot and bitter into the companion’s mouth. He sucks and dips his head, taking Aziraphale’s softening cock deep again and humming. Aziraphale’s back bows off the bed and he grabs desperate handfuls of red hair. Crowley licks along the underside of his shaft, feeling how the hardness is ebbing away. The prince gives a sob and tugs on Crowley’s hair.

“I can’t—too—oh my darling!”

And Crowley does eventually give in to these tugs. Being oversensitive is a beautiful thing, especially when it draws those pitiful moans from the prince. He tongues at his slit and Aziraphale presses the heel of his hand to the companion’s forehead to force him away. He shivers with pleasure, but sweat beads his hairline.

“Too much, too much.”

Crowley gives a delighted chuckle then stretches up to kiss him. “Shall we have breakfast?”

Aziraphale’s face is a picture. Overexerted and surprised in equal parts. He gives a satisfied murmur before going lax into the mattress. “Didn’t you just eat?” he teases lazily.

Crowley pinches the prince’s side. “Ha. Ha. I have _never_ heard that one before. Get up. Breakfast.” And he slides off the bed with a slight twinge of pain.

Still a little off-balance and boneless, Aziraphale follows him. He glances around the room to find their clothing from last night. Crowley offers a sly smile before he pulls a dressing gown from inside his new bureau. He holds the red silk kimono out for the prince to put on. It gives him a shiver of possessiveness to see Aziraphale in his colors. He grabs his sunglasses from the side table and tucks them into his pocket. Both ready, they walk into their receiving room.

Adam has indeed set up a table—an honest to goddess dining table with a pair of padded Queen Anne chairs. The table is dressed in a blue embroidered tablecloth and covered in a generous breakfast spread. Crowley pulls a chair out for Aziraphale to sit, then moves around to the table to lift the coffee pot.

“My dear,” Aziraphale chastises, “sit down. You are not my servant.”

Crowley nods sharply and takes his seat. He brings the coffee with him and fills his cup with the dark liquid. He stirs in cream and sugar, while Aziraphale pours his tea.

“I am quite famished. That soup last night was not very filling.” He grabs a pastry and gives Crowley a lavish look. “Of course, exertion might have helped with that.”

Crowley grins adoringly and selects a soft-boiled egg. He taps the top of its shell with a spoon and digs in with gusto. His stomach rolls with hunger.

Aziraphale takes a bite of his chosen pain aux raisins and gives a moan worthy of their bed. “Oh, that is scrummy.”

Crowley has to remind himself to close his mouth. That’s two dishes when these noises have made their appearance. He scoops out another bite of egg and wonders if he’ll survive those sounds at every meal.

“Shall we talk a walk today?” Aziraphale asks. “The grounds, if you’d like?”

Crowley swallows another mouthful of his breakfast. “I’d like to know my way around, sure. You don’t have anything more important to do?”

Aziraphale finishes his pastry, then chooses a strawberry from the platter before him. He looks at Crowley sideways. “You are important.”

Crowley stammers. “I only meant,” he takes a deep swallow of coffee to loosen his throat, which is strangely tight with the prince’s words, “you have work to do.”

Aziraphale takes a grape and pops it into his mouth. “My books will keep for today.” He licks the juice from his thumb. “I can’t have you getting lost around the palace, now can I?”

Crowley tightens his grip on his coffee cup. He watches raptly as the prince selects an orange segment and bites it in half. He gives a little hum of pleasure, before eating the other half. He sucks his fingers into his mouth and then his eyes quickly glance over at the companion before flicking away again.

Crowley grins devilishly. So that’s how he wants to play?

“May I?” he asks, coyly, before grabbing a strawberry and holding it out to feed the prince. Aziraphale parts his lips seductively to accept the fruit.

There is a rapid knock on the exterior door and then someone calls, “Open the door in the name of the Prince!”

Alarmed, Aziraphale stands. “Enter!” he calls. The fruit is forgotten.

A lord of the counsel, Raven Sable, charges into the receiving room, surrounded by five armed guards. The lord’s eyes are bright and angry. Crowley stands slowly, dread creeping up his spine.

“Prince Aziraphale, you are ordered to appear before the Prince.”

Aziraphale fidgets and knits his fingers into one another over his stomach. “Of course. May I dress?”

Lord Sable looks at their breakfast table and at the prince’s attire. “We will give you ten minutes.” The lord does not leave but stands uncomfortably watching them.

Aziraphale looks back to the table, then to Crowley. “My dear,” he stammers, “would you—“

“Sit down, my prince,” Crowley commands soothingly. “Finish your tea.”He pushes Aziraphale into his chair by the shoulder, slides his glasses into place on his face, then exits into Aziraphale’s room.

It’s a new space and Crowley pauses to take it in. The room is larger than his own and is lined with even more bookshelves than their sitting room. It smells of paper and Aziraphale. He wishes anxiety wasn’t pulsing through his system so that he could enjoy being there. Instead, he locates a large wardrobe and opens it.

There are yards of fine fabric sewn into a variety of beautiful garments. He fumbles with shaking fingers and grabs the first tunic he sees. He hears Aziraphale enter behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees the guards shadow the prince.

“Would you pour some water into the basin, my dear boy?” Aziraphale asks as if he’s not being marched into his bedchamber surrounded by swords. He takes the tunic from Crowley and gives him an encouraging smile.

Crowley gives a shaky nod and searches for the hidden door to the prince’s ensuite. It’s tucked between a curio cabinet that is covered in trinkets. He forces himself inside.

A guard steps into the ensuite and watches Crowley. He gapes, then tries to force the fear away. He fills the pitcher from the cistern, then finds a flannel and dips it into the hot water.

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale says to the guard, trying for polite but sounding prissy. He comes to Crowley’s side. He is wearing tan breeches with a matching waistcoat over a light blue shirt. Crowley tries to keep his hands steady as he wipes his prince’s face with the flannel.

“What is this about, Aziraphale?” he asks as the prince grabs his toothbrush.

“I don’t know. I want you to stay here—“

“No, I’m not leaving you to face this alone—“

Aziraphale points the toothbrush at his companion to silence him. “You will stay here." 

Crowley hisses angrily.

From outside the doorway, Lord Sable speaks, “The courtesan must join you. The Prince insisted.”

Crowley’s hiss turns into a pleased grin. Aziraphale glares and then leans over the basin to clean his teeth.

They’re flanked by the guards from their rooms. Crowley hovers at the prince’s side. He has never been arrested. He has never been threatened with harm in this way—it’s always been mixed with pleasure in the bedroom. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand. The prince smiles reassuringly and squeezes.

Their escort takes them into the throne room. Gabriel is seated on his throne with his foot crossed up onto his knee. His leg bounces in anxiety. Crowley looks around. The present court is mostly limited to stuffy older people. Beelze stands behind the throne wringing their hands. They catch Crowley’s eye. He’s startled with the degree of worry there.

Aziraphale bows and Crowley follows suit, albeit slower. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion. He’s terrified.

Lord Sable leads them into the room and then bows too. He addresses the room, “Your Majesty, I present the prince Aziraphale and his consort.”

Gabriel glares, “We can see that well enough on our own, Sable.” The lord simpers, but the Prince Regent ignores him.

Lord Sable spins around to face the prince. Crowley tightens his grip on Aziraphale’s hand.

“Aziraphale—“ Sable begins, but Gabriel growls in a warning. The lord winces and begins anew. “Your Royal Highness, the Prince Regent’s court calls you before the dais to give an account of your loyalty to the crown.”

Crowley feels Aziraphale stiffen. He glances at the prince. He’s pale.

“I am loyal—“

Sable overrides him, “Explain your relationship with the Princess Uriel.”

Aziraphale is bewildered. “The Princess is my sister-in-law.”

Sable glares in disbelief and Crowley bares his teeth at the lord. “Then explain how the Princess Uriel came into the understanding that she was to marry the Prince Regent—“

Aziraphale interrupts, “Because she was? When Queen Michael ordered the formal retreat she offered her sister, the Princess Uriel’s hand in marriage—“

“Retreat?” Sable shouts and Crowley tugs Aziraphale closer to him in protection. Guards step closer to them, anticipating a threat and Crowley sneers at them.

“Step away from the prince,” he growls at them.

Lord Sable speaks over them, “We all know that to be a lie, Your Royal Highness. We all know that you could not manage the upper hand on the battlefield—“

“Slander!” Aziraphale snaps, truly angry. “I have allowed this fiction to continue to keep the peace between my brother and Princess Uriel, but we drove back Michael’s troops thrice before they declared no contest! I will swear this on my honor and my name.”

This is the first time that Gabriel’s emotions change. Some of the defensive anger shifts. He sits up straighter and plants both feet on the floor.

“Brother,” he addresses Aziraphale, “are you saying that the reports of the battles are incorrect?”

Sable makes a sound of sarcastic disbelief. Aziraphale ignores him and faces the Prince Regent.

“I have not disputed this for interest in your domestic tranquility, Sire. Ask my regiment, see my personal journals—ask the Princess, she was at the final charge. The accounts of that ‘negotiation’ are falsehoods.”

Gabriel twitches. “Then why have you allowed our brother Sandalphon to continue this narrative?”

Aziraphale shuffles his feet and looks away. Crowley reaches over to his prince and clasps Aziraphale’s hand between both of his own. The prince looks at his companion and gives a sad smile.

“You know, Your Majesty, that Sandalphon and I have struggled to maintain a relationship. I felt that the truth would out in time, but perhaps we could mend our association first,” the prince answers, sadly.

The Prince Regent taps his finger on the arm of his throne. “And what of the promise of a principality?”

Aziraphale blinks. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, my—umm, forgive me, what principality?”

Lord Sable strides forward and Crowley drops Aziraphale’s hand to step between them. The guards all shuffle and shift, some going for their sabers. Gabriel raises his hand and holds them off. Aziraphale places his hand on Crowley’s hip and pulls him backward. Crowley vibrates with anxiety.

Sable does not seem assuaged. He gives a shark-like grin. His teeth are sharp, “The principality that rings Fellstone Keep—the fort where you served at the time you met and schemed with the Princess Uriel.”

Crowley’s head spins. Aziraphale’s hand is still on his hip. It grips tightly and Crowley can feel those fingers alining with the bruises that his same fingers left the night before. 

“I did house the Princess following the treaty. I did not ever scheme against Your Majesty, with anyone. I certainly never wanted to rule!”

Sable gives another grin, “Oh? Who said anything about ruling?”

Aziraphale snarls, “You did, you—“

Crowley whips around and shushes the prince. He waves his hands in front of Aziraphale’s face. “Let’s not get carried away, angel. He’s the man who commands the pointy swords.”

For whatever reason, this draws a small chuckle from the Prince Regent. He stands. Lord Sable plows on, regardless.

“Your Royal Highness, you mentioned that you have mended your relationship with your brother, Prince Sandalphon. Are you aware that he has been arrested from treason?”

Crowley and Aziraphale both freeze. They are staring at each other through Crowley's tinted glasses and the world around them becomes a vacuum of noise.

“Oh bless the goddess Béḃinn, that she may protect my patron in our hour of need,” Crowley prays at a whisper. Aziraphale’s hold on his hips is trembling, but still unyielding. Crowley refuses to look away from the prince. “Béḃinn, goddess of the courtesan, hear the prayer of your willing servant.” He brushes a kiss to his fingers and with all the sincerity and desperation he can manage, touches his sigil.

Aziraphale speaks, but he focuses solely on Crowley. His voice is fierce but quiet. “Then he is no longer my brother.”

Gabriel descends the dais and Lord Sable bows cynically.

“Brother,” he states, and Aziraphale drops to his knee. Crowley follows immediately, bowing his head lower than the prince’s. “We are heartbroken this day. Our future queen and brother have committed treason against our noble crown. We are blessed that you are still our loyal subject.”

He holds out his hand and Aziraphale kisses it. He looks up at his older brother sorrowfully.

“I am too astonished, my liege, forgive me. I know I am not eloquent enough to prove my allegiance.” He rubs a hand across his face. “They’re both false?”

There is a hint of hope in his voice and the Prince Regent reacts immediately. He seizes Aziraphale’s hand and pulls him to his feet. His embrace is instant and tight. The brothers hug for a moment before Gabriel steps backward.

“We will need to know the extent of this trouble. Brother, I charge you to go to our brother Metatron and prove him true,” he frowns. “If he is false, bring him to us in irons.”

Aziraphale bows low. “I will go at once, my Lord.”He holds out his hand to help Crowley to his feet. The guards all step away grumpily. Crowley glowers at all of them. How dare they threaten his angel.

The prince is already beyond their insult, however. “Your Majesty, I will ride immediately. I will have need of two of my best—Captain Device and Lieutenant Pulsifer.”

Gabriel nods, solemnly, “You shall have them.” He looks to the head of the royal guard, Lady Carmine Zuigiber. “Make it so. Supply him as he needs. You may leave us.”

She gives a stiff nod and curtsy before she exits. 

Gabriel’s eyes do not twinkle as he looks from his brother to the dais. Beelze rubs their hands together, then smooths them on their jacket. Gabriel speaks to Aziraphale without looking away from his companion.

“Make haste to make us safe, brother.”

“I shall leave within the hour,” Aziraphale replies as he gives another low, respectful bow and holds out his hand for Crowley. He bows to the Prince Regent but gives another scowl to the guards and a darker look to Lord Sable before he takes Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

There is no armed escort this time, but they walk in the same tense silence.

“I beg you forgive me, but the tour will have to wait,” the prince stammers.

Crowley stops and pulls Aziraphale to a halt as well. He takes the prince by the cheek and searches his face. Worry, alarm, resolution, and anger roll across his expression in turn.

“Aziraphale, angel, my prince,” he soothes, “I know. You have your duty to the Prince Regent. It’s an honor to be so trusted. I’ll manage.”

Aziraphale’s countenance smooths. His eyes reflect his fondness. “Oh my dear,” he whispers.

Crowley’s life as a companion is not one that allows for vulnerability. In fact, avoiding this is the reason that the _oiran_ practices their craft with such devotion to rules and expectations. He, and all those like him, are actors. He has certainly felt admiration or lust for his clients but has never felt safe enough to drop his guard.

Of course, Béḃinn doesn’t just drop bonded pledged patrons into random laps, he thinks. He commits Aziraphale’s warm gaze into his memory, then kisses the prince.

It’s a quick thing, but he hopes it helps Aziraphale. As they part, a messenger joins them in the hall. She is breathless from running to catch them. She gives a clumsy curtsy.

“Your Royal Highness,” she pants, “the Prince Regent bids me say that he will send reinforcements after you. It shall be a day and a half march for a company of 180 soldiers.”

Aziraphale blinks and answers slowly, “Has the Prince reason to believe such force is necessary?”

The messenger takes an asthmatic breath, “Your Grace, dangerous letters are discovered in your brother the prince’s study.”

Crowley can’t help but yelp out, “The Prince Regent?” His heart thunders. Is Beelze safe?

The messenger is shaking her head as she wheezes, “The traitorous Prince Sandalphon.”

The messenger sags against the wall and holds her side. “The Prince Regent and his council believe that the Prince Metatron is seeking to gather troops in the West.”

Aziraphale nods and reaches into his pocket for his purse. He frowns. “My dear, follow us to my chambers and I will reward your swift feet.”

She shakes her head no. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I must away to the Princess Uriel’s household and bid them leave.” She gives another clumsy curtsy and races back the way she came.

Crowley stands motionless, watching the messenger disappear. “You’re going to war.” It’s meant to be an observation, but it comes out as a lament.

Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s waist and guides them toward their rooms. “I pray it does not come to that.”

Once in their sitting room, Aziraphale steers them to his bedchamber. He guides Crowley to a couch and leaves him there to pull the plaited cord that rings a servant.

A boy about Adam’s age answers the summons. He gives the solemn bow of a child who has been reprimanded for misbehaving too often.

Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him. “Wensleydale, please ask the cook to make us some tea and sandwiches. I will be leaving—please ask that another meal be ready for myself and two others to eat on horseback.”

The boy nods and bows again. He rushes off and lets the door slam behind him. Aziraphale is in motion at once.

“Will you run me a bath, my dear?” He moves to his bureau and begins to dig through his clothing.

Crowley gives an unseen nod of agreement and moves again into the ensuite. It’s been cleaned since they left, which gives him pause. When Aziraphale goes, the servants will clean up every trace of him. Crowley rubs his hands up through his hair before forcing himself into motion.

He adds the drain to the tub and fiddles with the tap from the cistern until it flows at the rate he wants. As the water fills, he slips out and into his own room. Aziraphale glances up when he leaves and gives the same puzzled look when Crowley returns.

He brings his olive oil soap and bath oil, his shaving kit, and his pitcher with him. He stands next to the prince and watches him decide on one spare tunic and two pair of breeches. He seems to be hesitating on wearing his military uniform or not.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley coaxes and herds Aziraphale out of his clothes and into the tub.

The prince makes noise about being wasteful as he’s using too much water, but the companion ignores him. The flannel from earlier that morning has been spirited away by unseen hands. That’s all right because Crowley wants to do this his way. He selects one of his personal linens and dips it in the water. He dips his pitcher into the tub and meticulously pours the water over Aziraphale’s shoulders and back. Then he lathers the soap and begins to massage the linen into the prince’s skin.

Time slips away. Rinse. Lather. Scrub. Rinse. Aziraphale lounges in the tub, watching Crowley with half-lidded eyes. With a lazy, dripping hand, he reaches up and pulls the sunglasses free of Crowley's nose. They blink at each other slowly.

With nothing to separate them, Crowley tips Aziraphale's head back against the tub and lathers up his chin and neck with a brush. There is a moment of unease when the prince sees Crowley’s straightedge razor.

“Would you rather I not?” he asks, unguarded and a bit sad.

Aziraphale seems to shake himself. He relaxes back against the tub and offers his throat.

“Forgive me, my dear, it’s been a trying morning.”

Crowley leans down and kisses Aziraphale’s forehead. “I just want to take care of you.”

And the moment the words are spoken, he knows that they are completely true. Aziraphale looks at him—really looks at him, with hungry, but perceptive eyes—and gives him a beautiful smile.

“Please, my darling, please do.”

His trust makes Crowley shiver. 

They’re quiet. There is only the razor’s rasp and the water’s lap when Crowley rinses the blade. He uses the linen to wipe the leftover soap away. He’s pleased with how soft and clean Aziraphale’s cheeks, chin, and lip look. Crowley leans down and kisses him.

“I need to get moving,” Aziraphale admits, frowning against Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley nods, before grabbing his pitcher and pouring water over the prince’s hair. He’s faster with his process now, feeling Aziraphale’s nerves. It’s clear that he is already counting down minutes in his head.

Crowley helps Aziraphale out of the tub and quickly towels him off. Before the prince can step away though, Crowley rubs a small handful of oil into the skin of his calves, working it up his legs, over his buttock, and up to his back. It’s not the massage he wants to give Aziraphale. It is relaxing enough that the prince braces his hands on the counter and lets his head drop forward.

Crowley digs his thumbs into the base of Aziraphale’s neck and watches his reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t forget me out there, angel,” he pleads, quietly.

Aziraphale lifts his head and meets Crowley’s eye in the mirror.

“The chief god Dagda would have to come to earth and take you from me,” he promises, vehemently. “You are mine and I am yours. I have the paint to prove it.”

At this, he lifts his arm to show Crowley. The companion rests his hands on each of the prince’s shoulders.

“Stay safe, then,” he replies with the same pleading honesty.

Aziraphale turns and wraps his arms around Crowley. He tugs him tightly to his chest and holds him. Crowley’s head drops to the prince’s shoulder. Right there is where he worried a love-bite just hours ago. It feels like months have passed since then.

Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head and then releases him.

“Come, my dear, I need to make haste.”

Crowley nods dumbly and follows. Aziraphale dresses in his uniform. It is white and sharp, lined with gold epaulets and buttons. Multiple colored ribbons decorate his chest. Crowley can see that years of wear have yellowed the fabric. Aziraphale packs a small bag with his most basic toiletries, spare clothes, and a book. He lingers at his desk before selecting parchment, ink, quills, and sealing wax.

Bag secured, he opens his curio cabinet and retrieves a long sword and scabbard. This he carries into the other room. Crowley follows like a loyal dog.

An ornate silver tea service, complete with tiered sandwich tray, has been laid out. Aziraphale sets his items on the couch and takes a seat.

“Come and eat, Crowley,” he directs, his voice gently. Crowley joins him, but can barely chew. He drinks two full cups of tea and quivers from the caffeine.

Someone knocks at their door. “Enter!” Aziraphale calls.

He does not seem surprised to see Lady Zuigiber. She brings several maps and documents with her. She curtsies.

“Your Grace, might I brief you before you depart?” she asks, but in such a way that Crowley infers that he is not invited to attend.

Aziraphale uncomfortably frowns, then quickly pouts, and then gives a fake smile. Crowley loves his micro-expressions. They’re little treats of emotion that show the cycle of the prince’s feelings. He knows that Aziraphale wants him to depart and he finds himself hurt by this.

“Excuse me,” Crowley offers, frustrated. “It seems I need to leave the room.”

He stands and bows. Aziraphale has no micro-expression now. It’s a complete frown. Crowley feels the prince’s stare as he treks into his own room and pushes the door shut.

The room smells of sex and sea salt. It devastates him and Crowley falls onto the chaise. He lands on top of their pile of clothes. A button from Aziraphale’s waistcoat cuts into his back.

His training dictates that he stop moping and clean himself up. Companions should look like fashion plates when they leave a patron. If one’s bonded pledge is going off to war, surely he’s expected to give Aziraphale one hell of a memory to look back on.

Crowley staggers up, suddenly aware of his hip again, and hunts through his robes to find something suitable for waving a lover off to battle. He strips off his outfit and replaces it with a black sundress. His curls have frizzed out in multiple directions and even his comb cannot restore their order. With a sigh, he plaits it into a long winding braid. He digs around until he finds a mother-of-pearl and jet comb. This he slides into place to ornament his plait.

He is selecting a pair of sandals when Aziraphale calls for him. He stuffs his feet into whichever pair is in front of him and he’s in such a hurry to join the prince that he runs into the end of the bed.

“Shit,” he curses as he bounces on one foot and clutches the other. “C’mon, Crowley, you’ve got nine other toes, suck it up.” Unfortunately, this bid does not stop the pain in his stubbed toe.

It’s then that he sees the black and red silk sari piled on the chaise. It’s an instant decision. He grabs the fabric and rips a strip off. It’s slightly wider than a shoelace, but only as long as his hand. Crowley carries it with him out into the sitting room.

Aziraphale is facing the door, with his saber hanging in place on his belt. His bag hangs off his arm.

“It’s time, my darling,” he admits sadly. Crowley nods. It’s then that Aziraphale takes in Crowley’s new attire. His eyes drift down his lean torso and over his sharp hips in the same manner as the ball the night before. “You are absolutely exquisite,” he admits as if he’s cherishing something priceless.

Aziraphale walks over to Crowley and pulls him into an affectionate kiss. They linger, trading kisses back and forth until the head guard clears her throat from the doorway. 

“Your Royal Highness?” she asks, directing them to the door.

“Yes, ahem, of course.” Aziraphale pulls back, then wraps Crowley in his arms again and holds him close. “See me off?”

Crowley can’t speak so he just nods. Aziraphale hands him his tinted glasses and Crowley slides them on. Once replaced, he wraps back into the prince's grasp. He doesn’t let go of Aziraphale’s arm as they walk down the corridor after corridor. Crowley is completely turned around when they exit the palace into the bailey. Grooms hold the reigns of three giant chargers. A dark-haired woman is loading the saddlebags of one and a lanky man is checking his scabbard near another. The third horse is golden brown with a light blond mane.

“You’ll match your horse,” Crowley observes, noting the Prince Regent’s coat of arms stitched into horse’s harness. Aziraphale smiles at Crowley and then lets go of his arm to pack his bundle. While he is distracted, Crowley takes the length of silk from his sari and ties it to the handle of the prince’s blade. It stands out strikingly against his white uniform.

Unfortunately, it is not a surprise for Aziraphale to find it later. The force it takes Crowley to knot the silk draws the prince’s eye to his saber.

“What are you doing?”

Crowley freezes. “It’s… ugh, well. I thought you might need… it's from…”

Aziraphale turns to fully face his consort. “Is this your love token, my darling?”

Crowley can feel his face flaming. Even his ears feel hot.

“It’s from my sari,” he admits. “From the night we met. Which, I mean, is, ugh, last night. But it was, ngk, special."

Aziraphale touches the fabric and looks at Crowley with open adoration. Crowley feels his heart stutter.

“You know, my dear boy, usually one’s favored knight is to keep such a favor close to their heart.”

Crowley nods, dumbly. “Next time then. I’ll knit you something.” He blushes anew. “Not that I knit. I mean, I could. Or that I want you to go to battle. Again, well, not really right now either, but—“

“Isn’t he obnoxious when he’s nervous?” Beelze asks from behind them. Aziraphale sees them with the Prince Regent and bows. Crowley is hasty to do the same. It’s not graceful. He’s rather ashamed of how awkward he is around Aziraphale.

A different stablehand approaches and offers Aziraphale his riding cloak. Crowley snatches it from the groom and settles it on the prince’s shoulder’s himself. He ignores Aziraphale’s knowing smirk as he clasps the cloak under his chin. He grabs his riding gloves from the groom in the same manner and hands them one at a time to the prince to put on.

He may not be able to fight, but he at least he can do this.

Aziraphale tugs at the wrists of his riding gloves and looks all around him. “Mount up,” he orders.

Device and Pulsifer both swing up into their saddles and claim the reigns from their grooms. Aziraphale faces his brother and bows.

“I will send word immediately, Sire, and I pray that we shall find these rumors greatly exaggerated. But I will hold our brother accountable, no matter the outcome.”

Gabriel nods. “Make it so. May the three Morrígan, goddesses of war, bring you triumph in battle—but I pray we are mistaken. Go with our blessings.” And the Prince Regent reaches out and touches the crown of Aziraphale’s head.

He gives another deep, reverent bow. Then he approaches his horse, only to double back and sweep Crowley into a spine-tingling kiss. He pulls back gives a thoughtful hum and mounts his charger.

“We will ride hard,” he directs Device and Pulsifer as he pulls his horse around. “It’s a half day’s ride to Castle Vox Dei. We shall make it in hours. May the three Morrígan protect us!”

And he spurs on his horse. The other two follow him out of the portcullis and over the drawbridge at increasing speeds. They leave Crowley in their swirls of dust as he watches them disappear over the horizon.

“Come home to me,” he prays, knowing that the prince cannot hear him. He wonders if Béḃinn can offer protection to someone during a battle. His thoughts are interrupted by the group of people dissipating from the bailey.

“Bee, sweetheart,” Gabriel says, his voice tired, “shall we invite your brother to our chambers? It seems like we might need some music.”

Beelze pulls their hand free of the crook of his arm and wraps this arm around Crowley’s shoulders. They have to stretch up to do this, but they guide him away.

“I think that is an excellent idea. Perhaps we can find a harp somewhere. He’s a better harpist than I am.”

Crowley allows himself to be turned and lets their conversation wash over him. He looks back over his shoulder at the dust. It’s the only sign left that Aziraphale was ever there.


	7. I Capture the Castle

Unlike Fellstone Keep, Castle Vox Dei is close by. It’s a half day’s ride—but Aziraphale orders that they ride hard and they make the grounds in over three hours. The horses are tired and Aziraphale feels a mixture of gratitude and grief for them.These emotions lay overtop his disquiet at seeing the West countryside preparing for war. In the village, a blacksmith hammers a blade. In the fields, farmers practice throwing spears. In the marketplaces, women buy fabric bandages and splints. The air smells of fear.

They slow the horses to a walk and dismount once inside the bailey. A stablehand appears and offers to take the horses as they dismount. Aziraphale, Anathema, and Newt each reach into their saddlebags for their items before the horses are taken off to be cared for. An armed guard meets them before they reach the front entrance.

Before he can say anything, Aziraphale demands, “Take us to my brother, Prince Metatron in the name of the Prince Regent!”

The guard’s eyes open wide but he makes no move to assist them. Aziraphale brushes past him. Captain Device and Lieutenant Pulsifer follow, their hands laying on their swords.

They are met by a pair of footmen who take their riding gear and lead to them to the main hall. Metatron stands before a grand fire. His wife and her brother attend him, each jumping to their feet as Aziraphale strides into the room.

“Brother! What a surprise—“ Metatron calls, but Aziraphale pulls a warrant from his bag and declares loudly.

“Prince Metatron you are ordered to appear before the Prince Regent and make explanations to your loyalty and traitorous actions.”

Metatron’s face reddens and he yells with bluster, “What is this madness? I am no traitor!”

“That is for the Prince Regent to decide,” Aziraphale informs his brother, angrily. “Although we have collected damning evidence from Sandalphon.”

The red in Metatron’s face drains away to pale panic.

His wife flaps her hands and rails at Aziraphale, “Lies! Such lies! How can you say such things?”

Metatron snaps at her, “Shut up, woman.”

She glares and her nostrils flare violently. Metatron’s brother-in-law looks ready to run out the servant’s entrance, but Captain Device steps behind him and he sinks into his chair once more.

“How can you stand by and watch the countryside ready for war against your own family?” Aziraphale asks as his fingers hover over his weapon. He sees a whisp of black silk out of the corner of his eye and must stifle a smile. 

“You’re willing to defend our mother?” Metatron snaps. “That conniving old bat?”

Aziraphale feels rage bubble up. Instead, he thinks of how Crowley saved him from his lapse of propriety at his birthday feast. He’d used this duty and training to guide him. So Aziraphale ignores his emotions and focuses on his job. He opens the warrant.

“By order of the Crown and of Prince Regent Gabriel, Prince Metatron and his household are restricted to their residence until such time as they can be escorted by royal guard to the palace. Any who attempt to violate this house arrest or assist others in violating this house arrest shall be sentenced to death. The grounds and rooms shall be searched and evidence of disloyalty collected. So says the Prince Regent.”

Metatron’s wife gives a dramatic sob, but her eyes only show panic. They are caught out and they know it.

The prince dismisses his brother’s household guard. Anathema sequesters the lord and lady of the house in a guest room, while Newt does the same for the brother-in-law. Neither party is allowed access to their belongings. This leaves Aziraphale time to search through their documents.

There is a distressing amount of documentation: from assorted correspondence to receipts of money paid, all of it is damning. With a sad sigh, Aziraphale pulls the iron cuffs from his bag and collects an armload of papers.

Anathema clasps the irons around the lord and lady’s wrists. The lady cries but seems angrier at her husband. Aziraphale pulls a chair from before the fire and turns it to face them.

“Metatron, I have found your letters.” He waves a bundle of parchment at his brother. These are not what he has questions about. He sets these back on his knee and exchanges these for a banking book. “I have found your household accounts very telling. It seems that the pallets of famine relief have been added to your personal stores… and then seem to have been sold to the very people they were sent to help from their Crown.”

Aziraphale pages through the logs and taps the accounts that reflect this narrative. “You made a pretty penny, it seems.”

Metatron licks his incisors with angry swipes of his tongue. He does not speak. Aziraphale continues to read through the accounts book before he pauses at another line.

“It seems that you are also charging the people for fishing in their river.”

The lady of the house can take no more. “How are we expected to keep up with finances without such income? Gabriel keeps his purse strings tight!”

Metatron glares at his wife, but Aziraphale openly rebukes her. “You will not refer to the Prince Regent so informal, ma’am.” She sneers at him.

He gets no further information from them. With this in mind, Aziraphale returns to Metatron’s study and takes up a quill. First, he issues warrants for three local noble families and gives directions to search Metatron’s brother-in-law’s home. Next, he writes his findings for the Prince Regent. Each of these shall go off when the messengers arrive with the troops in a few hours.

Finally, he indulges a fancy and selects a new page of parchment. He writes to Crowley. It’s not a long missive. He recounts the hard ride and his loyal mount. He laments the hot sun. And then, with only a moment’s thought, he writes from his heart.

_As I mentioned, the sun beat down on us unrelentingly. It heated the oil that you rubbed into my skin this morning. It smells sweet. It smells like your hands._

He signs, folds, and drips it with sealing wax before he can second guess his words. He pulls his signet ring from his little finger and presses it into the golden wax.

He tucks all three bundles into his pocket and takes over guarding his brother. The hours pass slowly, but he can feel the letter burning over his heart. He does not edit it, only lets the sear of its weight hold him present in the moment.

The day is dying away when the troops march into the courtyard of Castle Vox Dei. Aziraphale orders a new guard for their prisoners, sends Newt and Anathema to rest, and dispatches messengers with his notes. Several soldiers accompany the warrants.

Guilt needles him. These troops have marched all day, yet these handful will not get to rest. The other troops make camp in the bailey and draw up the drawbridge and lock the barbican and portcullis. Fires light the wall’s stonework and voices echo around the battlements.

Aziraphale orders the cooks to turn their stewing roasts into soup. All of this is given to the men. There is not enough bread for everyone that night. It’s no matter, the platoon’s kitchen staff will take over in the morning to ensure this will not happen the next day.

He is as satisfied as he can be. The platoon leaders will look after their men. In the morning, Aziraphale will send Captain Device with the prisoners and a company of soldiers back to the palace. Crowley will receive his letter by midday.

Aziraphale will stay and restore order for the Prince Regent.

Castle Vox Dei is not welcoming like the palace in the capital. Instead of warm white marble and open balconies, there is drafty stone and smoking fires. Even the family’s rooms are cold and lonely. Aziraphale notes all this as he retires to bed. He’s chosen one of the family rooms, usually home to Metatron’s eldest, but lately-married daughter. It’s the most homey of the choices, but still not comfortable.

Aziraphale pulls all his belongings from his bag. His writing tools go on the small desk in the corner and his meager clothes into a drawer. He hangs the day’s clothes on a hook. Finally, he pours lukewarm water from the pitcher into the room’s small basin. It’s nothing like Crowley’s and the idea smarts.

It is the day after his birthday. It is hours after he’d entered into a commitment that is a marriage by all but title. And, immediately following, had deserted his new consort.

Aziraphale glances down at his arm where bright paint depict a promise. The last hours have been nothing but dramatic highs and lows. He could not have foreseen such a day. He leans into the bowl and splashes his face. Water drips off his hair and nose. His eyes burn with exhaustion.

He finds a flannel hanging from the table that the basin and pitcher rest on. He dips it into the water and scrubs at the back of his neck. He moves to wipe down his back and freezes.

He should wash the sweat and dust away. To do so, however, would remove the scent of Crowley’s olive oil. Indecision stills him, but gravity does not change its law.

A drip of water trickles from the cloth and runs down between the prince’s shoulder blades.

“Bless the goddess Béḃinn,” he prays for the first time in his life and wipes at the back of his neck. “Keep him until I may return to his side,” he continues as he cleans his shoulders and arms.

That’s not to say that he wipes with any force at his forearm. Honestly, he’s probably too gentle around the paint, but he doubts that Béḃinn will comment.

He bathes with efficiency and then drops into the bed with heavy limbs. Sleep overtakes him quickly, but abandons him before the sun rises.It’s no matter. He rises and dresses before the servants even arrive to tend the fire.

Newt is already awake and in the great hall when Aziraphale enters. The Lieutenant gives a bow, but yawns as he does so.

“Sorry, Your Grace,” he apologizes, but Aziraphale waves this away.

“How do the morning’s preparations go?” he asks instead.

“We have commandeered the Prince Metatron’s wagons and will pay for the use of three additional from local villagers. Everyone will travel separately with their own guard.”

The prince nods. “Will there be room for the documents to travel separate from each of the prisoners?” He ignores the foul taste that the word leaves in him mouth. He is talking about his older brother, after all. The lieutenant nods.

“The soldiers who visited Lady Dowling’s home last night found much more than we’ve found here. It seems that she may have been keeping it for Prince Metatron.” Aziraphale nods his understanding, so Newt continues, “We needed a much larger wagon for that.”

A servant enters and her eyes widen in surprise. She gives a panicked curtsey.

“Come in, dear girl,” Aziraphale coaxes. “Don’t let us slow you down.”

She bobs another curtsey and hurries to tend to the fire. She glances over her shoulder several times as if expecting him to change his mind.

Newt shuffles some of the documents before him and organizes these into piles. “Do you have any messages to deliver to the palace, Your Royal Highness?”

Aziraphale nods and hands over his packet of letters—one for the Prince Regent and one for Crowley. The lieutenant takes them without comment and adds to a leather-bound folder. He ties it shut.

“I will the messenger; they’ll ride with these immediately.” He gives a quick bow and departs.

Aziraphale watches the servant girl and she finishes with the fire. “My dear,” he begins and she starts so hard that two pieces of firewood fall from the bag at her side, “has water been boiled for tea?”

Her voice trembles as she answers, “Of course, Your Royal Highness.”

He smiles and hope it soothes her. “Wonderful, thank you.”

He finds the bell cord in the corner of the room and prepares to give it a dainty tug. The maid interrupts him, “Your Grace, only me and the other scullery maid is awake. I’s to wake up the maids still, but I got to sees to the fires, first.”

Aziraphale gives her a warm and friendly smile, “Quite right, my dear. Forgive my oversight. Would it be all right if I made some tea?”

The maid’s eyes widen again, “Youse make your own tea?”

“Only if you’ll give me permission?” he asks and she nods with disbelief.She gathers her items and leads him through the servant’s entrance to the kitchen.

“Thank you, my dear.” She bobs another curtsy and races off, leaving a trail of fire ash in her wake. He immediately locates the copper cistern of hot water and then begins the hunt for tea leaves. He’s lucky to find them near the tea set.

Making tea has never been a ritual for him. In fact, the last time he made his own pot was back in Fellstone Keep. He pours hot water over the tea leaves and is instantly transported to his sitting area. He can feel Crowley’s hand covering his as they jointly pour tea into a cup. His breath stutters in his chest and must close his eyes for several deep breaths. Apparently, making tea is now an act of worship.

How can someone he just met have such an effect on him?

He finds a tray and carries the tea things out to the great hall. Newt has returned and looks enviously at the teapot. Aziraphale sets the tray on the table and offers the lieutenant a cup and saucer.

“Anathema was just waking,” Newt offers as he takes the dishes. “I tried to let her sleep a bit longer, but she’s anxious to get on the road.”

Aziraphale checks to see if the tea is seeped. “If I gave her a list of items to return with, would that be too forward?”

Newt smiles and selects a chair at the large table. “You know Anathema. If you don’t give her specific employment then she’ll just meddle anyway. Who knows what she’ll bring back if you don’t give her a list.”

He pushes over some parchment and quill, then searches the table for his inkpot. Aziraphale busies himself with arranging a cup and saucer for Captain Device. She won’t drink it, but she’ll cranky if she isn’t offered one.

Lieutenant Pulsifer gives a noise of pleasure and pushes his ink well across the table.

There’s a knock at the door into the great hall and the lieutenant looks in that direction quizzically. It’s far too early to receive anyone.

“Enter,” Aziraphale calls, as he dips the quill. It’s a sergeant. He snaps a quick bow to the prince and then a salute to Newt.

“Your Grace, troops are rallying in the next town over. It appears that they are led by Lady Blanc Weiss.”

Aziraphale pushes away from the table, tea forgotten. “How many? Are they ready to ride?”

“Over one hundred volunteers, we believe. They are still making camp; we do not think they’re ready for the march.”

“Good, thank you.” The sergeant gives another bow and moves to retreat. Aziraphale calls him back. “Sergeant, I will send you with a note, please stay.”

Aziraphale turns to Newt. “Wake the Captian. She must take the prisoners now before Weiss is ready to stage a rescue mission.”

The lieutenant hurries out and Aziraphale takes up his quill. He slashes his words across the page, not even pausing to sit down. He folds this note, grabs a candle from the table, and seals the letter with this cheap wax and his ring.

He hands the note to the sergeant, who looks worried. “Find the fastest messenger we have. This is the call for reinforcements and supplies. It must reach the Prince Regent immediately.”

The sergeant gives a knowing, sharp salute, and hurries off. Once alone, the prince lets his shoulders droop. He had hoped to end this with no bloodshed. It seems that hope is lost.

His morning is spent pouring over maps and reading intel. Anathema readies her company and rides with the dawn. Aziraphale walks into the bailey to see their convoy off. Wagon after wagon roll away, each with curtains fastened tight. Their prisoners are in irons, each headed to their trials. Yet, Captain Device waits for something.

“Don’t you have a list for me?” she finally asks, eager, and ready to swing into her saddle.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Ask Crowley to pack me some things. We may be here a while.”

He wonders if this will be rude. The companion barely knows him but did seem willing to help the morning that he left. Anathema seems to think it’s a reasonable request, for she gives a hasty bow and mounts up. She waves to Newt and then bypasses much of the convoy to lead it.

Around him, the soldiers linger uneasily. They’re watching him. They’ve heard the mismatched stories of an efficient commander, but also of an inept leader. They do not know which to believe.

“Lieutenant Pulsifer, call the troops to attention.”

Feet pound the ground as they line up into formation. Aziraphale looks over them in the early morning light. Fog lingers around the battlements. Newt calls for parade rest. The soldiers’ feet move as one.

“Let me set the rumors to rest. Troops rally against the Crown and aim to meet us in battle.” The troops do not shift from formation, but their anxiety is palatable. “These are our own countrymen, so we pray that blood will not be shed. However, they seek to usurp the rightful heir to the throne. They are led by lies. When the drought came to this land, our Prince Regent sent supplies. These were hoarded by the Prince Metatron to stir up unrest. He was given the right to lead this territory by our brother, yet he has hurt the very people whom our family has sworn to protect. May the gods and goddesses have mercy on his soul.

“We have sent for reinforcements. Additional troops and supplies will arrive soon. We must present goodwill to the people of the West. They have been starved by the very head that should have cared for them. I will ask you to help me distribute these supplies—not just to avoid further violence, but because it is the right thing to do.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I pray we will not into war, but harden your hearts to the possibility. I ask you to give thanks for this day and rest, for tomorrow we meet with the traitor Lady Weiss on the battlefield.”

Newt calls the formation back to attention, then dismisses them. Together they reenter the castle. The remains of an uneaten breakfast spread across the table of the great hall. The prince wanders over to it and selects some sort of breakfast sandwich. It’s not his usual taste, but it’s easy to carry as he works.

He returns to his maps and traces the main roads. A messenger heralds them from the doorway and Newt bids them enter.

“Messages from the palace, Your Grace,” the messenger bows and holds out a leather-bound folder of messages.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies, walking to take these. “See to your horse. Get some food and find a cot. I will have need of you soon.”

The prince unties the folder and grabs his brother’s letter from the top of the pile. The seal breaks easily. He reads quickly.

“The Prince Regent is only sending us a platoon,” he reads in alarm. The lieutenant gapes.

“That’s only another fifty men!” Newt exclaims.

Aziraphale reads on. “It seems that Princess Uriel wrote to her sister the Queen. Michael denied interest in the coup but has taken the opportunity of our rebellion to fortify the Eastern Gate. She is preparing an invasion. A messenger arrived from Fellstone Keep just after we departed the palace.”

He rubs his hand across his face. “We are to change command. Your wife is bringing General Young back with her to subdue the rebellion. I am going away.”

Newt is solemn. “We are headed back to the Eastern Gate?”

Aziraphale leans on the palm of the hand that rubbed his face. “I am. The Prince Regent has arranged for me to change horses in several cities. It appears that I am in for another fast ride.”

“Shall I arrange for our first leg then?”

“Newt, you are to stay with Captain Device here and help orient General Young.”

“Bollocks. Anathema and I will be going with you.”

Aziraphale pats the table with his other hand forcefully. “Oh, you liked fighting Queen Michael’s forces so much that you’d like a second go? You enjoyed watching Anathema take a saber to the shoulder?”

Lieutenant Pulsifer crosses his arms. “How many troops is the Prince Regent sending to the Eastern Gate?”

“A whole regiment,” Aziraphale answers and taps the page where this is decided. “I’m to lead over 4,000 soldiers.”

Another knock at the door. Newt looks a bit overwhelmed, but calls for them to enter.

Another lieutenant makes her bow and her salute. “I bring word from our scouting mission.”

"What have you learned?”

“Another seventy or so villagers have been conscripted to Lady Plague. They are slow to rally, however, and have not begun to march and meet with Weiss.”

A plan forms. “Lieutenants, how sharp are your personal squads?”

They look at each other. “Exceptional, Your Grace,” she answers.

“The best. I trust them with my life,” Newt confirms.

Aziraphale fidgets with his signet ring. “Quietly, _secretly,_ gather your squads. Leave through the back. Intercept Plague and disperse her fighters. Bring back her head.”

Newt stands at attention, but the other lieutenant looks concerned.

“Is this in your abilities?” the prince asks, watching the unknown lieutenant closely.

Newt grimaces, “I’m never a fan of messy work, but it’s certainly doable.”

The other lieutenant gives a ghastly laugh. “Let’s do it. What orders do you have for her conscripts?”

Aziraphale reaches into his pocket and retrieves his purse. He tosses it onto the table and it slides toward them.

“Send them home with the love of the Prince Regent. Tell them we are proud that they are so loyal to their leader and that provisions are on their way.”

“I’ll gather my people,” the new lieutenant decides and gives a neat bow.

Newt picks up the purse and gives a bow of his own. “I’ve never promised you anything like this, Az, but I’ll bring you a head.”

“Thanks, Newt,” the prince says as he leaves.

The prince returns to the letter from his brother. Once finished, he sighs and leans back in his seat. His backside is already sore from yesterday’s hard ride. He does not look forward to additional days in the saddle.

He selects the next letter in the pile. It is from his mother the Queen. With a frown, he unfolds it and skims the words. The sentiments do not surprise him.

_How dare you help lock your brother in the tower? And to go after Metatron? How could you? I hear you’ve taken a common trollop to your bed. I assumed that your uncle’s folly would teach you but—_

That’s enough of that. He tosses the rest of it, unread, into the fire. And then, nestled in leather is a missive in an unknown, spiky hand. He hopes he knows the author.He flips the parchment over to see the seal. There is a curled sigil of a serpent. His heart quickens as he opens Crowley’s letter.

_Aziraphale, my prince,_

_Beelze tells me that I am not to write about anything that may upset you but to stick only to court gossip. Of course, all the court gossip is this mess, so I’ll avoid that too._

_What is the West country like? I have only ever traveled to the capital once before now, but it is as far north or beyond as I have seen. I believe they farm?_

_The South is nothing but olive groves and vineyards. We have the coast, of course, but it’s a good ride to get there. As a boy, I climbed the volcano to look at the sea. I got a good hiding for that. I was gone for hours and your cousin Lucifer thought I’d been sold into slavery._ _Actually, he sent me out into the olive groves to help harvest as some of my punishment. I think he was disappointed when I enjoyed it so much. We all had to help with the grape harvest… when we were kids of course. When we were out and able to entertain we would join in the grape stomp. It’s a huge honor to have an_ oiran _join in. I remember the year that Beelze was the honored guest—_

The door to the great hall opens and interrupts his letter. He hastily folds it and hides it in the pocket over his heart. General Young enters, shadowed by Captain Device. Both give their courtly bows and join the prince at the table.

“There was a skirmish between our troops and the locals,” Young informs. “Strangely, they were subdued when I promised them flour.” He looks confused.

Aziraphale nods, unsurprised. “The more that I have learned of my brother’s handling of this land, the more I see the damage he has caused. I am fairly certain that he has been taking more than his share of the land’s produce. He has the accounts that look like he’s running a grain silo.”

The general frowns. “Your brother and his plotters are secured in the tower. You should know, however, that your brother Sandalphon is in deeper than we believed. He has something on the Queen herself, it seems. She refuses to believe his treachery.”

Young wrings his hands and awaits Aziraphale’s reply. The prince can only sigh deeply. “It may not be something so drastic, general. My mother’s health has been largely hidden from the court. Her mind is fragile. She thinks I am her father sometimes.”

Young bites his lips and wrings his hands again. Anathema watches him with growing concern. Aziraphale wishes she were alone in this. If this is how worked up he gets by giving news, will he be able to end this rebellion?

Captain Device holds out a red silk bundle that he has never seen before. He isn’t surprised to see a black snake twisting around the front.

“Your consort sends your things and his greetings,” she says with a smirk. Clearly those were not his exact words, but she won’t be repeating what he did say in front of Young. Aziraphale takes the wrapped items and gives her a stern look. She smiles with faux-innocence.

Young steps toward the table and examines the map that the prince had already spent hours pouring over. He taps their current location and then walks his fingers across a field.

“We could set up a provisions station here. It would give us eyes on which of the locals come for goods, but also a defensible position.”

Aziraphale acquiesces and stands. “General, it’s your baby, now. You have my support in any choice. I would like it noted that we need to give the villagers hope and an opportunity to avoid a fight.”

Young hums his agreement. “I was always told to bring flowers when courting someone, apparently out in the West we only need to bring flour!” He laughs loudly at his own joke. Aziraphale cringes. Anathema covers her mouth with her hand and coughs to hide her laughter when she sees his face. The general mistakes the source of her amusement and grins winningly at her.

“I am going to retire, as I must be on my way shortly,” the prince declares and Captain Device frowns.

“Of course, I hear the Eastern Gate is hot right now,” Young offers this without any consideration for how this comment will be received by the leader headed there for war.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale returns, “Captain Device, walk with me?”

He collects his bundle of items from home and the communication from the palace. Anathema matches his step as they ascend the stairs.

“Your husband is on an errand for me,” he admits quietly.

“What kind of errand would you need during a—“ her voice drifts off. “Is he alone?”

He touches her elbow. “My dear, he is with his soldiers and is accompanied by another squad. I am sorry to send him without you, but we could not miss our moment.”

She forces herself to exhale calmly and center herself. “He can take care of himself, I know that.”

“But you’d rather be at his side,” Aziraphale finishes. “I’m well aware.”

She opens the door to his bedchamber for him and looks in, checking like a guard. He gives her a significant look and she shrugs.

“Will you send someone to wake me in a few hours… or when Newt returns?” he asks pleasantly. “I’ll have to make some progress before nightfall.”

He passes her and stands with one hand on the door. “He should be back shortly, my dear. I am sorry to worry you.”

She waves at him. “If you asked something of him, you needed it done.” She looks down the hall before smiling at him. “Get some rest.”

Once the door is closed, he considers the bed. He should sleep, but he is too anxious for the squads to return and for his own departure. Instead, he walks to the window and retrieves Crowley’s letter.

He skims what he’s read once, enjoying the slant of his letters, until he finds where he left off.

_I remember the year that Beelze was the honored guest at the opening of the first bottle of one vineyard. They took a giant drink and made the worst face. The vintner never spoke to our House again. I think Lucifer lost some serious money with that glass of wine. He asked me to be the companion who turned the olive oil press one year. One of the best memories of my training._

_I could take you to my home District and we could help with the harvest. Have you ever been truffle hunting? The dogs usually do all the work, but it’s still a great day out. Spring isn’t bad either, if you’d rather. We could help with keeping the vines warm. When the frost comes too early the vintners pay people to keep fires burning through the night. When we were children it was magical. What isn’t for a kid to love? Staying up all night, fire, and starlight? The locals would tell stories and cook rabbits over the flames. We’d wrap up in thick shawls and pretend to be hobos or cowboys or witches sitting around the campfire. I always fell asleep before the night was over._

_When we got older, we’d take our lyres out with us and play and dance for the locals. They thought we were whores, but we always brought booze, so they’d look the other way._

_It’s later than I thought so I’ll wrap this up. I know we’re new lovers and not fully acquainted with one another, but you are a treasure to my heart. Keep safe, my prince._

_Yours,_

_Crowley_

And if the magical spinning of tales from his childhood wasn’t enough to make Aziraphale read the letter again, then the ending surely would. He can feel his pulse pounding in his wrist as he stares at Crowley’s signature, set just next to his snake sigil.

He sets the letter on the bed and opens the bundle that Crowley sent him. At first, he’s confused, then he realizes that the companion has wrapped his items inside the red silk kimono he’d lent to Aziraphale for their breakfast together. Time has moved at such a strange rate, it feels years ago, though only breakfast the day before. He shakes his head in disbelief.

He fingers the items that Crowley chose. Additional underthings, including a clean vest, are no surprise. Neither is the book from his nightstand, bookmark still in the place where he left it days before. However, the small vial of olive oil is. He lifts it into the air to let the sunlight shine through the bottle.

Aziraphale has no idea how it stayed intact for the travel, but he pulls the stopper and sniffs the delicate oil. It’s fruity and sweet. He dabs some onto his fingers and brushes it across his pulse points. Restoppered, he sets the vial against the side of his desk where it will not leak.

Tucked into the pocket of the kimono is a folded and sealed piece of parchment. Aziraphale’s heart leaps.He pulls the sealing wax free and unfolds the letter quickly.

_Aziraphale,_

_The Prince Regent (G) has asked me to tell you that your mother and I are now the best of friends._

_This is a blatant lie._

_~~I know this to be treason, but the Queen is a harpy.~~ _ _Perhaps we can try to make acquaintances again when you’re here to supervise._

_I did not know what else you would be needing, but didn’t want to pack too much as G told B to tell me to pack you some items but that you would be attending a different battlefield. They will not tell me where you are going, nor if you are in more or less danger. Write me when you can and let me know what you need._

_Keep safe, my prince. Come home to me._

_Yours,_

_C_

Aziraphale sinks onto the bed and holds the letter to his chest. Crowley has met his mother; he cannot begin to imagine what the woman has said to him. No matter.

In the bailey, there is a huzzah of voices. Aziraphale moves to the window to see Captain Device pulling Lieutenant Pulsifer into a demanding kiss. At his feet is a human head. The prince nods. He will rest, pack his things, write a letter, and be on his way. Young can handle this now.


	8. Some Kind of Chess

When the Queen was a little girl, her mother betrothed her to three different people before she was seven. The court joked that her hand was the golden seal on treaties. They called her the princess of peace. Her father the King believed this to be all codswallop, but allowed his wife to make gains for their nation at their daughter’s loss. He intended to live for quite some time, so planning for his heiress seemed illogical.

It wasn’t. The Queen was eleven when he died.

She was too young to rule and her mother too grief-stricken to assist, so a helpful lord suggested that the Queen marry. The Queen Mother would agree to anything—as long as someone framed the suggestion in terms of what her dead husband would have “wanted".

The Queen was betrothed to a man seventeen years her senior. They married when she was twelve—just two weeks after her first monthly course. He was a man of ambition, but also some integrity. He swore they would live together as brother and sister until she was of age. Reinforcing this, he moved his own siblings into the palace. He had a brother slightly older than the Queen and a sister slightly younger than the Queen. The Queen was enamored with the King Regent’s brother from the moment they met.

When she was fifteen, this secret was let out by her tutor. He brought her journal to her husband.

“It seems that your wife the Queen harbors incestuous feelings for your brother, the Lord of Suxsford,” he warned. Together they read over her private thoughts and schoolgirl crush.

The King Regent, now in his early thirties, decided that if she could think of his brother in such manner, she was ready for their marriage bed. It took three tries for her to carry his child.

And so, at the tender age of sixteen, the Queen gave birth to a tiny son named Gabriel. Then she bore him another son. Metatron came into the world angry and screaming. The King Regent was pleased. He had an heir and a spare, as the court said.

As the young Queen held her second son, she looked to her husband. “When I am churched, I should like to join a meeting with you, husband, and your counsel.”

The King Regent blinked. “Whatever for?”

“This is my land, I want to rule my people.”

“Wife, you are emotional from birth.”

She glared but did not force the issue. She found herself with child again soon. This time, the daughter was born blue. Physicians rushed about her child birthing room until their daughter was declared dead.

The King Regent was not surprised when the Queen made inquires about joining him in his counsel meetings.

“You’re grieving, Wife,” he announced. Then, to keep these meetings from her mind, he sought out her bed. As soon as her body offered fertile ground for his seed, she was sown like the earth. This son, Sandalphon, was hale and tempestuous.

But at his birth, the court began to whisper: too many sons. When the Queen gave birth to Aziraphale, those whispers were a gentle buzz around the throne. Four sons could equal war. The Queen denied this.

“We have a son to rule each corner of our land. We have our Prince, then one for academia, one for the church, and one for the army,” she was certain.

With this delivery, however, she also never allowed the King Regent access to her bed again. “I have done my duty. Now, what is this about the Southern fish market?”

The King Regent was staggered by the Queen’s vivacious beauty. She was intelligent and regal. She was also head-over-heels in love with his younger brother. This was his only pawn to keep her from taking back her rightful powers.

“Wife, mine,” he began one day, “what say you look into this Southern fishing crisis?”

The Queen looked up sharply. “Forgive me, but how do you mean?”

“Perhaps you and my brother could travel to the Southern coast and learn of the people’s troubles,” the King Regent off-handedly suggested.

The Queen and her household traveled midweek and were gone for many months. Then a letter arrived: the King Regent’s brother had met a companion in that district and had fallen in love. They had bound themselves with a Pledge Bond and then married in the temple. Many assumed they were soon to announce the impending arrival of their first child.

The most important part of the letter, however, was how extremely jealous and angry the young Queen was.

Even with this forewarning, the King Regent was not prepared for the arrival of his wife.

“I will see new laws written,” she demanded of his counsel. “All courtesans will be denied a temple wedding. They must make do with heathen customs. The law will not see this as a law-binding contract.”

The counsel bristled. The Queen anted up. “Companions are the same as any common prostitute. We have laws for such whores to protect our people. Companions must undergo the same expectations; we cannot have common trollops bearing the nobilities bastards.”

Voices rose in protest, but the Queen had finally found her voice. “And so says the Queen!” The King Regent attempted to calm her, but was surprised at her response. “I also find, husband, that you deserve your retirement. Take your household and retire to the South with your brother. Enjoy the fishing.”

The Queen waged war on the _oiran_. However, none suffered as much as the King Regent’s brother. His consort and her child, Lucifer, were stripped of land and money. Without the former King Regent’s own banishment to the Southern district, they would have starved.

As Uriel finishes her tale, Crowley stretches out his legs. He and Beelze are “keeping the Princess company” by the Prince Regent’s orders. Uriel is fairly certain that sitting in the tower with a dead-woman-walking is not the highlight of their day. However, both companions are soothing.

“That is some seriously fucked-up gossip,” Crowley grumbles. In the hallway, they hear the Queen’s raised voice.

“I will have no common sluts in my house! Cavorting with the servants! Swearing to maintain virtue only to dance and sleep their way through ever district between here and the sea!” she seethes.

Beelze picks up the lyre they found in Uriel’s chambers and begins to idly pluck out a harmony.

Crowley glances overtop his sunglasses at the door. Something smashes. He points at the door, “So this is why you volunteered us to hang out with the traitor Princess? I thought you were giving up the easier job to help the Prince out.”

Beelze intentionally plucks a disharmonious chord and gives a fake smile to Crowley when he winces. The doorknob rattles. Someone calls for the Queen to “come away, Ma’am!”

“She has never said a kind word to me,” Uriel admits.

“Nor I,” Beelze replies with a shrug. “It’s her mind. It’s gone with her age. I think anger is the only emotion she still feels.”

The door swings open and the Queen falls into the room gracelessly. The guards and ladies-in-waiting who were trying to corral her all nearly tumble into the room.

The Queen faces Uriel and begins to spew vile insults, “Treacherous snake! Using your witch powers to seduce a good man and turn another’s mind from the Crown!”

Uriel stands and walks to the other side of her tower quarters. There are not separate rooms and no household. Crowley and Beelze continue to lounge in the small sitting area. They are the only barrier between the Queen and her prey. Then the Queen’s target changes.

“Shrew! Temptress!” she shouts at Beelze. Beelze rolls their eyes and begins to strum the lyre.

“I’ve heard this all before,” they tell Crowley, urging him to ignore the goading.

The Queen tries to lunge toward them, but her unsteady legs trip on her long skirts. Her ladies-in-waiting each grab her under an arm and help her stand. The Queen turns her attention on Crowley.

“Devil’s glass! Smoked mirrors to hide your eyes!” she yells.

Crowley faces the Queen. “Less of the devil and more of a condition, Your Majesty. And, to your earlier comment, I haven’t cavorted since I was twenty, I assure you, Ma’am.”

She seethes. “You’re just like all the rest here in this false court. Trying to be so charming and witty to trick the Prince Regent, but you’re just covering up what we all know. You’re here, hanging onto the coattails of this traitor like a common—“

“Well, I’m half common,” he interrupts. The ladies and guards all look taken aback. No one interrupts the Queen. “My mother is Lady Lilith Brimstone, so I’ve got some blue blood.”

No one moves. No one speaks. Beelze looks up at Crowley in awe. He shrugs nonchalantly—as if he’s not relieved that the Queen didn’t just demand he make his way to the gallows. Beelze gives a snort.

Crowley pulls a folded parchment from his jacket pocket. He offers a seat to the Queen and then says, “The Prince replied to me—I asked about the West country. It’s rather a travel log, would you care to hear it?”

No one answers, but the ladies help the Queen sit, so Crowley clears his throat and begins to read.

_My dear Crowley,_

_I traveled much of our land when I was a child, but, no, I’ve never been to the South during the harvest season. You make the hard work sound romantic. I wonder if we would still think so at our age?_

_I enjoyed your stories. I must say that I think my childhood was lonelier than yours. I was sent to the Eastern Gate when I was three. I lived there with my household and tutors. I only spent time with my brothers during the summers. We would meet at SoHo House directly to the North of the capital. It is my mother’s favorite castle. It’s mountainous. I remember snow on the mountains in the summer. The air tasted better there. Goats used to climb down the rock face and look into my bedroom window. I would sit in the window and read and make faces at them._

_I hope the weather holds for you. The sea is warm there this time of year. Go for a swim. When I return, I’ll take you out on the little catamaran to see the cliffs. Do you dive? If you’re up for an adventure, I’ll take you cliff diving._

__

_You asked about the land here, so I will try to do it justice. It is not beautiful in a traditional, poetic way. It’s sturdy. Yet I love it fiercely. The Western Valley is flat, but the sides of the canyons make that impossible to believe. The fields look gold with wheat, but in the winter they grow a red crop that looks like rust. It’s been so hot that the land makes the far sides of the valley look hazy. The farmers here are all waiting on the locust. They track them each twenty-one years. They’re two years late this summer. The local villagers worry that it will mean a larger swarm when they come._

_We set up provisions for the locals. General Y. has agreed to try my plan of offering goods first, then amnesty to the fighters. I hope they will desert the battle when they know that there is food for their families._

_I ride shortly for my next posting. I will send you a line from wherever I am before I ride again tomorrow. Stay well, my dear, for as I am treasured to your heart, you are also to mine._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

Uriel is still standing away from the group, but she is completely locked in on every word that Crowley reads. Beelze strums the lyre soothingly, playing some little sonnet that matches the tone of the missive. The Queen stares at Crowley unseeingly.

“Who knew that he would meet a friend like you,” she asks and Crowley frowns sharply. It’s very apparent that she has not discovered that he is a companion.

Without another word, the Queen stands and she and her household leave.

Crowley looks thoughtfully at his letter, "When I tell Aziraphale about the first time that I met his mother, do you think I should embellish the facts? Or should I just call a spade a spade and admit that she's batshit?"

Uriel has suddenly had enough of people in her space. She waves a hand at Beelze and Crowley.

“Get out. If my husband wants me babysat, he can send someone in an executioner’s hood,” she orders.

As they leave, she hears their voices carry back into the room. "I think you should call her a harpy," Beelze suggests.

"That would be true," Crowley responds.

Uriel lets all this sweep past her senses. Instead, she stands by the window and watches the sea birds float on the updrafts by her tower. She wishes she could fly away. She wonders if the Queen felt the same way when she too was a trapped young girl.


	9. Peregrinating East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the delay. School has started back up... nothing says fun like teaching high school English in person during a pandemic.

Aziraphale rides East. Thunderheads chase him and threaten to turn the road to mud. He and his mount are too tired to press on at the speed they need to outrun the storm, so they just continue on, both preparing to get wet.

The goddess of outward journeys, Abeona must be feeling kind, because somehow the storm waits until he rides into the gates of his aunt’s estate. Aunt Titka once served his mother the Queen as a lady-in-waiting. When Aziraphale was three and sent to Fellstone Keep, Titka ran his household. He had many memories in his youth with Aunt Titka. They were both well-read, curious people with a love for quiet, but delicious meals at home. She had bandaged scraped knees, had hugged him after nightmares, and had seen him off to battles. She was his mother in all but name.

Titka retired to her residence at Cielo Park when the Prince Regent stripped Aziraphale of his commission. He had not seen her in years. When Gabriel’s letter directed Aziraphale to rest at Cielo Park, his heart was overjoyed. They had never fallen out of correspondence, but he looked forward to the chance to sit next to her and talk.

A footman greets him as he rides up and a groom hurries from the corner of the house, holding a lantern. Aziraphale dismounts and collects his things from the saddlebag. He acknowledges their bows with a grimace at the sky.

“Does your Hackney fear lightning, Your Grace?” the groom asks, also looking to the dark sky. Thunder cracks overhead and drops of rain begin to fall.

“No more than I do, unless we continue to stand out in the weather,” Aziraphale jests. Yet, he finds he cannot leave it that. “Give him a good brushing and some kindness. He’s ridden hard twice in the last three days.”

The teen nods and directs the horse around the house to the stables. Aziraphale follows the footman into his aunt’s home. The main entry is warm and lit by candles.

“Her ladyship has sat down to dinner, Your Grace,” the footman notes, before offering to take the prince’s things to his room.

Aziraphale unclasps his cloak and pulls off his riding gloves. He smells. He should go and bathe first, but his stomach rumbles. He follows the footman into dinner.

“Nephew!” Titka shouts, delighted. She jumps up from her seat and runs to meet him. He wraps her in a tight embrace and feels her kiss his cheek.

“Come and sit! I had pheasant and parsnips roasted just for you! Chef has made a lovely miyeok guk with some of the nori that the Prince Regent sent.”

He squeezes her tightly again and laments how small she is becoming. Already, she is shorter and frailer. She must see his expression because she hits him on the arm.

“I will not have sad faces tonight, sir! I know we’re in a terrible state right now—what with plots and invasion—but you will not look at me like I’m old!”

He ignores her tutting and allows her to force him into a seat like the errant toddler he once was. He sinks into the padded chair with a stiff groan. Riding can be a nightmare on the buttock.

“Now,” she demands, clapping her hands as she sits, “tell me about your birthday gala. Was it as terrible as you’d assumed in your letters?”

Aziraphale eats a spoonful of his seaweed soup and moans with pleasure. Chef has outdone herself.

“If you enjoyed that, just wait for the pheasant!” his aunt teases, but quickly returns to her chosen topic. “Now, about the ball?”

The prince removes a cufflink and rolls up his sleeve until he exposes the fading paint of his Unity Bond. His aunt’s eyes widen.

“You’ve taken a consort!? What are they like?” He gives Titka a look. As if he were attached to a woman, surely, she jests! He shakes his head. She shrugs. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Oh, my dear aunt, assume away.” He swallows another spoonful and considers his answer. “He’s protective and generous. He cares about me—“

Titka suddenly seems to have made a connection. “Crowley!” she shouts.

Aziraphale turns sharply back to the door with a thundering heartbeat. His open, happy expression must betray how much he expects to see the companion there. He tries to clamp down on the hope when Crowley is missing.

“Oh, no, poppet, I’m sorry. He’s not here. I just,” she knits her brow in annoyance, “wish I’d thought of it! Your brother mentioned him in a letter, that’s all.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and reorders his pulse. “No harm done, auntie. I just thought perhaps,” he takes a long swig of wine to buy himself some time. He collects his thoughts but does not continue his previous thought. “No matter. I doubt he’d have enjoyed the trip so soon after a long carriage ride from the South.”

“I will send a litter for him in the morning,” Titka announces.

“No, no, absolutely not,” he argues.

“He would only be a day or two behind you!”

“No, aunt, I do not want him anywhere near a battlefield. He’s just determined enough, not to mention stubborn, that he might do something foolish.”

Titka looks at him knowingly, “Like run out into a war for you?”

Aziraphale takes another gulp of wine to hide his blush. “He’s a good man.”

Titka hums knowingly. “I have little doubt about that fact.”

The footmen clear away the soup course and bring in the roast. Once they’ve returned to lining the walls of the room, Aziraphale speaks.

“I don’t really know him, auntie. We’ve only just met, but we have the beginnings of something. When I read his letters, I hear his voice. How is that possible when we’ve spent less than an entire day in one another’s presence?”

Titka cuts a parsnip with delicate, petite movements. Her knife stalls and she looks to the ceiling as if to find the words. “A twin flame,” she says to herself thoughtfully.

“Soulmates are poppycock,” he dismisses. Titka looks at him sharply.

“Twin flames and soulmates are not the same. Tell me, boy,” she reprimands, and he feels chastened, “when you tied yourself to him in ribbon and paint did you not have the blessing of a goddess?”

He nods and pushes his meat around his plate with his fork.

“And did you not agree to honor his need to be at your side?” Again he nods.

“You felt a connection to him without knowing him?”

Aziraphale sets his fork down and swallows. “Instantly. It was like we’d always been connected.”

“He is your mirror? Everything you lack, he has? You are strong where he is weak?”

Aziraphale fidgets with his wineglass, turning the wine stem between his fingers. “I don’t know. We certainly have stories that sound familiar. He’s just… comfortable.”

Titka nods. “If you are twin flames, you will help each other to grow. You will not let one another fail. That’s not a terrible burden to have with someone you’ve bound yourself to.”

He lifts his fork again and takes a bite of the roast. “You believe in such things?”

She too takes another bite. “I believe that the gods do not make mistakes.”

The pheasant is smoky and, when paired with the parsnips, is nutty and sweet. When this course is removed, the footmen return with an apple brandy-soaked apple sorbet. It makes Aziraphale wiggle in delight. With their palate cleansed, the footmen return with a small cheese course and, finally, a tiny, but rich pear frangipane tart and pudding wine. Aziraphale is nearly sick he has eaten so much.

Even still, he takes his overfilled belly into the drawing-room to sit by the fire and drink tea with his aunt.

“I wish Crowley has been here for that. Absolutely scrumptious.”

Titka smiles indulgently, “I wish it were under better circumstances, but I shall pass that along to Chef. And, poppet, I should hope to meet your Crowley soon. You both are welcome whenever.”

Aziraphale smiles at his aunt over his teacup, “Let’s hope this nonsense in the East is over soon then.”

He would love to sit with her for hours and talk, but his body is weary and his eyelids drooping.

“Draw the prince a bath,” Titka orders when a footman stops to check on the water level in the teapot. “He’ll be going up shortly.”

“Are you sending me to bed?” he teases but stops due to a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Just so, little boy, off you pop.” She smiles lovingly and he returns the expression. “The Prince Regent sent you correspondence. You’re in the White Room. The letters are on the desk.”

With another large yawn, the prince kisses his aunt’s cheek and then follows a footman up the stair and into a bathroom with a crackling fire. A bathtub is already steaming away on the hearth.

“The bed is through there,” the footman points as if he’s never slept in the White Room before. The footman bows and exits. Aziraphale peels the nasty clothes from his body and slides into the tub. He gives a bone-rattling sigh and lets his eyes fall shut. He must fall asleep soaking, for he startles awake when his nose slides under the waterline. It gives him enough of a start to begin to wash the road from his body. It’s not the deep scrub he needs, but it’s enough to feel clean. He leaves his clothes on the floor and hopes that in the morning they’re not wet from his puddling feet. He barely dries off before he drops into the armchair before the fire. He refuses to stand again and instead stretches to grab the leather bundle of letters.

There are three from generals at the Eastern Gate. Each says the same things and Aziraphale grows anxious. It seems, just from these notes, that the generals are expecting Queen Michael to follow the same battle plan as her father. They have only fortified the area north of Celestial Harmonies Bay. He rubs his exhausted eyes with his palms and finds the letter from his brother.

_Dearest brother,_

_I pray that seeing our aunt has given you the strength to continue your journey to protect our lands. You would be pleased to know that the rebellion in the West has been brought to order and General Y. assures us that the traitors will all be brought to court and justice soon. I am glad to know that our people are cared for. This is a triumph in your ability to lead and keep the peace. Know that you have our pleasure._

_Our news must now turn sad. M has pleaded guilty at his trial and, without any other recourse, the judge and court have sent him to his end. We are sorry to deliver such sad news as the death of our brother. Please know that we would give you such terrible tidings in person and with our embrace if we could._

Aziraphale wrenches away from the parchment. Sobs heave through his chest and tears burn his exhausted eyes. Metatron was an idiot, and a traitor for sure, but his death is still a bow. It takes long moments before he can see clearly enough to finish the letter.

_I fear that more bad news will accompany future dispatches from us. S and U both stand trial in the coming days. Stay strong, dear brother._

_I wish to comfort you in any way. Tell us the day and we shall send C to you directly._

_Your brother,_

_Gabriel R_

Unable to stay awake any longer, Aziraphale drops the letters into his chair and drags himself into the bed and under the covers. Once tucked in, his grief rages and he cries himself to sleep.

The same heavy grief hangs on him when he wakes too. It’s like a dull cloak. The fire is lit anew in the hearth, so he slips from the bed, dragging a blanket behind him. He sits, naked and shivering, even wrapped in this cover, at the desk. He locates clean parchment and a sharp quill. He flicks open the ink well.

_My darling,_

_I find myself in despair this morning. I knew what outcome this business would bring, yet, here I sit, now without a brother. At the end of this week, what will be left of my father’s family?_

_I wish I could lose myself in you. To make this sadness palatable, I would worship your body. To hold this grief at bay, I would whisper poetry into your ear._

_I cannot bid you to my side, my bright serpent. My darling, your life is too precious to bring near the cannons. Keeping you safe is the only balm to my grief._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale_

He folds the letter, seals it with wax, and rings the bell to send it on its way. He dresses, packs, and descends the steps. His aunt has already ordered his fresh horse and had his saddlebags packed with too much food. She makes over him while he finishes his breakfast. He cannot find the words to tell her this sad news, so, like a coward, he lets her think he is sad for leaving her and going to war.

She kisses his cheek and hugs his waist, then sends him out the door and onto the road. The rains have left puddles and sloppy mud, but the sun rises brightly. The air is muggy and thick.

“Travel well, poppet!” Titka calls.

He can only wave, then ride out toward the East.


	10. Bedrock

Beelze was born Beelzebub in a small village to the South. Their mother did not survive childbirth and their father succumbed to consumption by the time they were two. Such was the price of poverty.

An aunt raised them for a few years, but one year the pilchard schools were late to their shores. Starving, she chose her own four children over their brother’s. Beelzebub took to the streets, but they were small and young.

Lucifer found them on their third week on the streets and took them home. He was in training to be a companion and had absolutely no pull in the House. He was, however, the bastard son of the king’s brother and was not unaccustomed to begging for what he wanted.

Beelze slept next to his cot for the first two years. He ensured they were schooled and cared for. They were the one who made them clean their teeth. He taught them the prayers to the goddess of the courtesan. He taught them to play the piano.

In those early years, they were basically a maid. They cleaned floors and hauled water. They woke before anyone else to begin the chores. Because of this, they heard the baby screaming on the steps first. Crowley was beaten so badly that even lifting him from the step was excruciating. Beelze called themselves Crowley’s older sibling, but, in many ways, they were his parent. This was no different than how Lucifer was basically their own.

Today is one of the days that Beelze wishes their parent was there to comfort and advise them. Gabriel is sequestered somewhere with his counsel sorting through the piles of documents that Aziraphale sent from the West. The loyal prince arrived at the Eastern Gate the day before to find absolutely disorder from their army and a giant hoard of the enemy at their border. He and the generals are apparently in-fighting for control of the troops. It has aged Gabriel.

Beelze glances over at Crowley who is perched on the pianoforte bench. He is poised as if to play but is frozen there with his fingers barely touching the keys. He stares into the distance, unseeingly through his sunglasses. He has heard enough from the Prince Regent and his lords to know that Aziraphale is in real danger—possibly more than the last time he battled Queen Michael.

What would Lucifer suggest that they tell Crowley? What would he say to soothe their own nerves?

They join Crowley on the bench. He seems to come back into the present moment and slides over to make room for them.

“Duet?” he asks, rolling his shoulders. There is music already on the stand.

“Only if you don’t suck,” they tease and take their position.

They play together, each of their fingers dancing across the keys. Crowley turns the page and Beelze huffs.

“You missed notes,” they reprimand in a sing-song.

“Up yours,” he snarls back with the same lazy teasing.

They pounce on the notes until the music pounds out with increasing passion. Crowley flips the page faster and jumps right back into the cords without so much as a missed beat. Beelze can’t tease him, they’re too focused on the score before them. It seems to help.

Then the door slams open and smacks the wall.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” the queen screams. She runs, trembling and falling over her feet, and slams the fallboard. She nearly catches their fingers. Then she stumbles around the side of the instrument and yanks the prop out from the lid. It too slams shut.

“Common trollops playing my father’s pianoforte,” she screams. “Get out of my castle! Get out of my home!”

The Queen’s household has finally arrived and two of her ladies-in-waiting soothe her. One tries to take her by the arm, but the Queen slaps her hands.

“These are the companions of the princes,” one of the ladies reminds her.

“They’re after my babies. Come to take their virginity and force them into nests of vipers,” she growls, menacingly.

Crowley scratches at his sigil and Beelze knows something is going to come out of his mouth. They wonder how much they should reign him in.

“Your Majesty,” he begins, all hiss, “Aziraphale isn’t here for us to be introduced correctly—“

The Queen slaps him across the face. Crowley nearly tumbles off the bench. His glasses go flying. Beelze catches his sleeve and hauls him back onto the bench and nearly into their lap.

When she screams, spittle flies. “You will not refer to the prince—I know you,“ she freezes. “You lied to me when you read that letter. You’re not his friend—“

“Mother?” Gabriel interrupts.

The Queen turns her anger on him. “And you, beheading my Metatron! Then forcing your own brother into the tower! Your own wife!”

“Mother,” he sighs, then leans down to pick up Crowley’s sunglasses, “we talked about this. Do you remember that they committed treason?” He hands the glasses to Crowley.

“Lies!” she screams and grabs the duet from the music rack. She crunches it in her hands and then throws it up in the air. “The whore has stolen your mind!”

Gabriel intercepts her and holds her arms to her sides. “Mother, Beelze has not hurt me. Sandalphon and Metatron were trying to usurp me.”

She screams, struggles against him, and when she escapes his hold, claws at his face. “My babies!”

He holds her away from him, but Beelze is still worried. They come over to him and try to grab the Queen’s wrists. She screams again, like a cornered animal, and the ladies-in-waiting join Beelze as they restrain the crazed woman.

Gabriel now sports three clear fingernail scrapes across both his cheeks. He speaks over her screams. “Can we get her something to help her rest?”

And it’s like a magic word. The fight goes out of her and she sinks to the floor. She glares at Beelze.

“And you, whore? Are you breeding the prince to keep my baby?”

Beelze doesn’t actually have a response to that. They should be used to it after six years of these sorts of comments. It still hurts something in them. Crowley is apparently not putting up with this. He slides his sunglasses back onto his face.

“Actually, ma’am, companions cannot bear children. I’m sure you know about the edict that followed after your brother-in-law’s son was born.”

The Queen slurs, “The bastard!”

“Ah, Lucifer’s not too bad. A bit of complex… grandiose delusions from growing up in Court, I think. He does tend to look out for the downtrodden though,” Crowley squats down gracefully and collects the crumpled sheets of music. “Your edict though, the one that ensured we are all sterile, was murder. Let me tell you how many companions died from unskilled surgeons.”

“Protecting my babies,” she says with gutturally. “My husband’s brother was never the same.”

“Well, I never knew him,” Crowley continues, before rising to his full height and offering his hand to Beelze. He pulls them to their feet. “But I know his son. He was raised by two loving parents; he talks about them all the time. I think your brother-in-law loved his consort.”

“Do not speak of him! The whore-lover!” the Queen screams, incensed once again.

Crowley raises an eyebrow and looks to the Prince Regent. “I’ll ring down for some salve.” He finds the plaited cord and pulls. The Queen watches his every move, positively trembling with rage.

“You’ve seduced my baby boy,” she realizes, suddenly. Her voice is hallow.

“Prince Aziraphale is a wonderful man. He’s my angel,” Crowley admits with a shrug. Then his eyes narrow at the Queen. “It’s an honor to be his consort.”

The Queen screams like a banshee and launches herself at Crowley. Her ladies-in-waiting tug at her skirts and pull her back. Gabriel actually steps back in surprise at her venom.

“You bound him like a dog?” she screeches. Crowley pulls his jacket off and tosses it over the chair closest to him. Without the coat, his arms are only covered to the shoulder. Crowley’s paint is beginning to fade, but the lines left from the Unity Cords stand out white on his arm. Beelze almost facepalms at his actions. The Queen sinks back onto the floor, wraps herself in her arms, and rocks.

“He is a good man,” Crowley repeats softly, then intercepts the servant that enters from their hidden entrance. “We could use some medical assistance. Her Majesty the Queen has taken ill and the Prince Regent believes she will rest better with some sedation. Some cordials would be very helpful for her household, I think. And some salve, if you could, for the Prince Regent.”

The servant seems a little overwhelmed with the list but gives a quick bow. “Right away, Master Crowley.”

The Queen hears his title and roars her displeasure. She attempts to break free of the ladies’ holds. Gabriel looks exhausted and turns from his mother.

“Could you help the Queen to her chambers?” he asks the guards at the door. They look a little overwhelmed and if Beelze were being honest, a little scared too.

“Master,” the Queen spits to Crowley. “As if you are the spouse to my son.”

Crowley’s eyebrow climbs over his sunglasses. “I’m bound to him. It is marriage in the eyes of the deities.”

The Queen is stunned silent. She wavers on her feet and then falls back into one of her ladies’ arms. “Married. My baby boy. Married. To a slut.”

Beelze has had enough. “Crowley brings honor to the House of Acheron and the goddess Béḃinn. He is no slut; he is an _oiran_ and lovingly bound to the Prince.”

The guards help the Queen to her feet and bodily drag her from the room. She’s shouting obscenities, but most of her vitriol is directed at her dead brother-in-law. The guards close the doors once her household is gone.

Beelze sags to the piano bench and Crowley sets the music and the salve jar on the top of the lid. He brushes his hands over the paper to smooth it. Gabriel sits next to Beelze and pulls them into his arms. Crowley smiles at them, sweetly.

“I think I should return to my rooms,” he offers, knowing they need to heal together. He nods at the jar. “Look after his face, sibling-mine, they’re going to put it on a coin one day. Can’t have it mangled.”

“Crowley,” Gabriel calls, before the consort can leave, “will you stay instead?”

Beelze is a little surprised, but so is Crowley.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he agrees, his forehead furrowed.

Gabriel gives Beelze a squeeze around the waist before standing and walking to his desk. He opens a small compartment and pulls something out. He walks back to the pianoforte and Beelze knows what’s coming. They can’t take their eyes off the ring held in the Prince Regent’s hand.

He kneels before them and Crowley gives a warm, heartfelt smile. He leans against the piano and watches.

“Bee, sweetheart,” Gabriel begins and takes their hand, “years ago, I bought you this ring and then let my family scare me out of it. I was a fool and a coward. I know that everything is a mess and this is the wrong time to ask you this—but I have wasted too much time. Be my spouse and consort. Marry me.”

Beelze can’t breathe. They look into his violet eyes and then give a nearly-hysterical giggle.

“You’re already married,” they say stupidly. "I'm not allowed to marry."

Crowley groans from over their shoulder.

“We will deal with all that, Bee.” Gabriel's voice is shaking. “I need to know, have I lost my chance?”

“No!” they shout. “I mean, yes! But, wait! No, it’s not too late!” They throw their arms around his neck and cling.

Gabriel rocks backward when they latch onto him, but holds very still. Beelze presses their forehead into his cheek.

“I never thought you’d ask. I have dreamed of being yours for years.” Beelze shivers. “Be my husband. I’ll be your spouse.” And their voice cracks and the tears come.

The door opens and closes. Crowley’s footsteps are silent as he gives them their privacy.

“Yes?” Gabriel asks, hopefully.

“Yes!” they reply. Joyfully, their lips meet.

Someone knocks on the door and both of them sigh with resignation. “Come,” Gabriel says as he stands.

A messenger stands there with a bundle of letters in a leather folder. He gives a bow, but Gabriel ignores him. He points to the top of the piano and then dismisses the messenger with a flick of the wrist. Once the door is closed again, he seizes his consort and pulls them flush against his chest. He dips them slightly and kisses them passionately.

Someone knocks at the door. “For the gods' sakes,” Beelze complains.

Gabriel sets them back on their feet and then calls, irritated, “Enter!”

Lord Sable stands there with three guards. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then rushes into the room and falls to his knees. The guards follow suit.

“The Queen is dead. All hail the King!”

Gabriel blanches. Beelze’s eyes widen comically, then they gasp in horror. Finally, slowly, they sink down to their knees and prostrate themselves low. Their hands are shaking.

“My mother,” Gabriel whispers, confused, “was just here.”

Sable’s voice trembles. “The court physician says she had a reaction to the sedative. Her heart,” his voice trails off.

Gabriel reaches out his hand to Beelze and pulls them to their feet once more. He wraps his arms around them and hides his face in their shoulder.

“Leave us,” Beelze commands and ignores Sable’s outrage.

“Will you not have us arrest the consort?” he asks with disgust. Gabriel shoves Beelze behind him before they can process what was said.

Sable stares uncomprehendingly for a moment, then he clarifies. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I mean the consort Crowley.”

Beelze gives a shriek like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. “What?”

Sable’s eyes flash with glee, but he hides it quickly under professionalism. “It seems that Crowley called for the doctor and ordered the sedative. The late Queen’s household says that he antagonized the Queen until she was desperate for the medicine.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Beelze shouts. “She bated him.” They turn to Gabriel and begin to explain in a panic, “He has a temper! He has since he was a child!”

“Steady, my love,” Gabriel replies. “Bring Crowley to us.”

Sable looks pleased and he gives a low bow before he and the guards exit. Beelze’s knees feel weak.

“This was supposed to be happy,” they cry. “Oh my darling,” they whisper, stroking his hair. “I am sorry about your mother, but Crowley did not hurt her! He wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

This brings a crazed laugh bubbling out their throat. Gabriel bends over them and rests his cheek on their hair. “Harm a fly, indeed.”

He clutches their hand and slides a simple ruby ring onto their hand. “It’s my fault for waiting too long. If I’d been less of coward years ago, we would have had years—“

“Enough of that,” they argue. “It’s a beautiful ring.”

They both look at how it sits on their hand. The sweetness of the moment is overpowered by how Beelze’s hand trembles.

When Sable next knocks on the door, Crowley is unceremoniously cast into the room. The guards knock him off balance and he falls to the floor.

“Your Royal High—“

“You will address the King as—“

“The King? Gabriel? What is going on?” Crowley cries.

Sable kicks Crowley in the back when he hears the King’s name. The toe of his boot catches the consort exactly where years of trauma have never really healed. He gives a cry and falls forward. Beelze throws themselves on the floor and hauls their brother into their arms. He gives a low groan and curls forward in their arms.

“The Queen is dead, pledge your loyalty to the King, you swine,” the lord demands.

Crowley gives another groan of pain, but pulls free of Beelze’s arms and prostrates himself on the ground at Gabriel’s feet.

“My king,” he pledges, his voice breathy with pain. “I am in your service and do swear my allegiance to you in the sight of Béḃinn, my goddess.” He brushes a kiss to his fingers and then his sigil. Beelze follows suit.

“Shall we draw up charges, Sire?” Sable asks and Beelze glares at him. There is pure delight there, poorly hidden by a mask. From the floor, Crowley groans, delirious with pain and anxiety.

“For what, Sable?” Gabriel snaps. “Coincidence?”

Sable offers a simpering frown, “Is it though, my King? The slut insults the Queen and then she’s dead?”

“Why is everyone calling me that today?” Crowley grumbles from where he is still kneeling face-down in the carpet.

“My mother was already in a state when she came to my chambers. You see, Sable, I was here. Crowley did not murder the Queen. He stood up to her as I should have years ago. Now, leave us.”

Sable stands firm, then gives a stiff bow and exits. Beelze surges forward and lays soft hands on Crowley’s spine.

“Can you move?” they ask.

“Sure, of course, just going to wait here for a bit,” Crowley replies, his off-handed tone belaying his pain.

Gabriel frowns then sits down on his haunches. “Are you well?”

Crowley gives a strangled noise, so Beelze takes over. “He has an injury and it takes it out of him sometimes. Are you able to move at all?”

“Not yet. I’m good here,” Crowley admits, “go look after each other. Leave me some parchment and ink, maybe?”

Gabriel finds the requested items, plus a pair of quills. He sets them on the ground, but he seems mentally far away. He drifts into their bedchamber.

“Go to him,” Crowley grunts. “I’m seized up, won’t move for a while, I promise. He needs you.” Then their little brother taps the ring on their finger. “He knows your taste. Congratulations.”

“We’ll celebrate later,” they offer.

He chuckles, still speaking into the rug. “Go celebrate with him now. I’ll order you a toasting fork to unwrap later.”

“Thanks for ruining the surprise,” Beelze grumbles. They are slow to leave him. He is in more pain than he’s showing. Who knows how the guards grabbed him before he was kicked? There’s nothing to do when he won’t accept help, though.

With that in mind, they go to Gabriel. The Prin—no, the King lays in the center of their bed, staring at the ceiling. They toe off their shoes and climbs into bed with them. They lay next to him, but rest their head on his chest. His arms encircle them. He’s crying.

“This has been the best week of my life,” he admits and it startles a guffaw from Beelze.

“Your brothers and future queen planned a coup and convinced some of your nobility to support them. You had a rebellion in the West and have a potential war in the East. You’ve lost your mother and a brother in two days. In what world is this a good week?”

He wipes his eyes, then his fingers touch the hair that brushes their collar. “You came back to me. You’ve agreed to be my bridegroom. How is that anything less than perfect?”

They turn and press a lingering kiss to his chest, “You’re a sap.”

“So you’ve said.” 

They lay together entangled. Gabriel’s chest rumbles with sobs, but Beelze doesn’t move. He cries until someone knocks on the door to their study. Both of them groan.

“Enter,” they hear Crowley call to the person at the door. Beelze can only hear their brother’s side of the conversation. “The King and his consort are a touch busy at the moment. Can I take a message?” He pauses, but no matter how Beelze strains, they cannot make out the other’s words. “I’m sure that the King has the letters. I am sure he will get back to you.”

“Damnit,” Gabriel sits up, grumpily, “a packet of letters came for me.”

He wipes repeatedly at his eyes and climbs out of the bed. Beelze slides out after him and they reenter the study together. A lord that Beelze does not know stands in the doorway. He gives a deep bow, but Beelze is watching Crowley in concern.

Somehow, he’s gotten to his feet, but the way he’s standing only screams pain. Gabriel must see this as well because he guides the consort by the arm to the chaise.

“Lay down before you fall down, brother,” he orders, and both Crowley and Beelze blink at the name.

The King doesn’t wait for any comment, he simply grabs the leather-bound bundle of letters from atop the piano and takes them to his desk. He sorts them.

“How may we help you, Lord Dowling?”

The man hits his knees and begins to crawl across the floor, “I come to beg forgiveness, my King!”

“Oh,” Gabriel comments, “Shall we take it that you would like us to overlook you and your wife’s treason?”

Dowling freezes. “You…you already know?”

“Your wife is in chains in the dungeon. The warrant for your arrest is already sealed and dated; would you care to walk yourself to the dungeon to join your bride, or shall we call for the guards?”

Beelze takes the decision from the man and steps into the hall. “Summon the guard. Lord Dowling is in with the King.”

The guard at the door looks momentarily stunned, but then there is a thump from inside the study and Beelze runs. They cannot believe how stupid they are—leaving a known plotter with their target the King. They hear someone yell and then bodies hit some furniture. A table breaks. Beelze is fast but is already too behind whatever has transpired.

Gabriel swipes out a blade from some hidden compartment in his desk and he holds it on Dowling. Crowley is wrestling the man, both of them fighting for dominance over a dagger. Guards rush into the room and seize Dowling. Crowley gives a groan and rolls onto his back. He lays on top of a broken side table.

“Gabriel! Are you all right?” Beelze yells, unable to help themselves.

“I am fine. Crowley is not! Call the physician!” the King roars and throws himself onto his knees at the consort’s side.

Beelze freezes. In addition to the insane amount of pain that their brother must be experiencing from his back, there is blood staining the sliced shoulder of his shirt. The tabletop that he is laying on is shiny with blood. It looks like red varnish that is slow to dry. Beelze feels the world around them slow. The King presses his hands into Crowley’s shoulder and he grunts with pain.

“Bee, get me a towel!” And this shakes them out of their stupor. They run for the ensuite and grab an armload of towels in every size. They drop them next to the two men and they kneel by Crowley’s head. Gabriel grabs a hand towel and presses it to the wound. Beelze cannot see where he’s cut, but there is a startling amount of blood. The towel is soaked instantly. The King adds another towel overtop it.

Many people run in and someone brings a litter. People carry Crowley away. Beelze can hear him cry in pain as the litter jostles his back. Beelze tries to stand and go after him, but someone stops them.

Without anything else to do, they cast about the room and see that someone has kicked over the inkpot that Crowley requested. The black ink puddles and stains the rug. Next to this is a broken quill and a newly started letter. Blood is splattered on the parchment.

Between the drops of blood, they see the beginnings of a love letter—although Crowley might not yet know that’s what it is.

_Angel,_

_I know you’ve arrived wherever the hell you were headed. Hell, maybe the right word, it seems. I know that war nips at your heels. If I could, I would wear your face into battle to keep you safe. Please bid me to come to you. I am begging you. Please call me to your side._

_Your grief, my angel, is about to be tenfold. Your mother, the Queen, has passed away. I am so sorry, my prince. I wish I could hold you. Bid me come—I will let you lose yourself in me as you wish. All you need do is call for me._

_I do not know what else to write, for I fear this will injure your heart so much that you cannot bear to see my hand on this page. I will write nonsense in case you need to lose yourself in my words._

_It rained all night so I slept in the sitting room. It didn’t feel so lonely; I pretended the rain was your breathing._

_I started the book you suggested, the one from your childhood… it feels a bit juvenile for someone my age, but it’s_

The letter ends before he was done with his thoughts. Beelze collects the parchment and dabs the blood away with a nearby towel. His blood matches the ruby in their ring, they think absently. Gabriel enters the room and they watch him. He stops at the mess of blood and ink and looks around the destroyed room.

Unable to look away, Beelze can only focus on is the blood drying on his hands.


	11. Tidings of Great Despair

Gabriel sits by Crowley’s bedside. He took over the vigil about three hours ago and sent Beelze to bed. He’s fairly certain they’re sleeping on the sofa just outside, but cannot bring himself to stand and check.

Crowley lays flat on his back without a pillow under his head. In his fever-induced dream, he's twisted his sheets around his torso and hips. They’re sweat-soaked as he burns with fever. His skin is pale and beaded with perspiration. Dark purple circles line his eyes. The snake sigil at his temple stands out stark black and red but looks accusingly at the King. The companion frowns in his delirium. 

"Angel," he hisses in a plea, "don't go."

Gabriel rubs his mouth with his hand and closes his eyes. He can’t deny that he is to blame for this situation. He should have had the guards seize Lord Dowling the moment that he darkened the palace’s gates. He looks to Crowley’s shoulder. It’s bound in layers of cotton, but the physicians think the bleeding has stopped. They’re very concerned about the fever, however.

Death circles Gabriel like his crown. He looks at the man in the bed and he worries that another name may be added to the list. Finally, he attends to the lap desk balanced on his knees. Slowly, he opens the lid and retrieves a piece of parchment. He sets the ink well into its hole and dips his quill into the blue ink.

This letter is a culmination of a terrible week.

_Aziraphale, my dear brother,_

_I want to advise you on the Eastern Gate, but my heavy heart keeps me from such._

_Forgive that, and please, brother, forgive this letter._

_Our mother has died of a reaction to a sedative. Physicians say it was quick. She is no longer suffering. I am so sorry for your loss. I wish I could cushion this blow. Also, I wish that were the end of my bad news._

_An assassination attempt was made on me—I am fine because C saved my life. He was injured in the struggle and is very ill._

_I will not ask you to leave your post, but will not question your loyalty to me or C if you return to the palace._

_Yours in grief,_

_G_

He folds Crowley’s bloody, but incomplete letter into his own and seals it. He reaches under the mosquito netting to set this letter on the bed. Then he selects another piece of parchment. With a long look at Crowley, he begins to write:

_To the Royal Crown to the East, Queen Michael,_

_We pray that you receive this in good health and prosperity. We know about your army’s presence at our Eastern Gate, but we are writing to your Grace about a more precious and urgent matter: your sister, Uriel._

He is interrupted by Crowley's gravely croak, "What are you doing, Sire?"

Gabriel looks up from his letter quickly and takes in Crowley's fever-bright eyes. He's never pushed Beelze to explain their brother's eyes, as they have only ever said that it were some sort of condition from childhood. The strange shape to his irises explains why he choose the animal for his sigil. In this light and with his temperature, his eyes are more snake-like than the King has ever seen. His yellow eyes practically glow against the white of the mosquito netting. 

"I am writing to the Queen to the East. I am hoping we can offer a bargain."

Crowley struggles to sit up and the King hurridly sets his lap desk on the bed so he may hold the companion in place. He nearly pulls the insect netting off the bed as he does so.

"You need to rest," he commands, "you've lost a good deal of blood and your body is in shock--"

"I need to go to Aziraphale," he demands, "before you send that bloody letter, please, please let me go to him."

Gabriel sits on the bed and presses him back into the mattress. He explains, hoping it will soothe the _oiran_. "I will trade Michael her sister for the banishment of Sandalphon to her shores. Then, we will meet to discuss redrawing our borders."

Crowley suddenly stops fighting and sags into the bed. "He's safe?"

Gabriel thinks of his brother's notes about incompetent leadership who undermine Aziraphale at every turn. "He is as safe as he can be. He's a good soldier."

Crowley blinks slowly, he is almost asleep again. This little amount of exertion should not fatigue him at the rate that it does. It concerns Gabriel in a new way. 

"Have I said that I am sorry about the Queen?" Crowley asks, his voice guttural and weary. Gabriel struggles to focus on the change in the topic. "She was a bitch, but that was only because she loved you all. She was a proper mum like that," his voice drifts off as he passes out again.

Gabriel stares at his slack face and his words draw a deep sob from his gut. Within moments, he is hunched over in his chair sobbing like a child. Unseen, but warm hands rub across his back and cup his neck. He turns into Beelze's hold and presses his face to their belly. His tears and snot soak into their waistcoat. They do not comment. Instead, they stroke up and down his back with the flat of their palm, and rub tight circles with their thumb on the side of his neck. They do not complain about how long they have to stand still for him to gain control again. 

When he does pull away, they pull a handkerchief from inside their jacket and offer it to him. Even in the dull candlelight and with teary eyes, Gabriel sees the flash of red that is their ruby engagement ring. It loosens something in his chest. He wipes his face, then blows his nose. He pockets the fabric and then rests his head on Beelze's belly again. They smooth his hair across his brow.

"You should sleep," they suggest. "Aziraphale's bed isn't too far away. You would be close by."

He adjusts his angle so that he can look up at them. "The same could be said for you. I thought you had gone to bed." 

Beelze shifts their weight between their feet and draws their fingers back through his hair, intentionally pushing it against its grain. "I tried. I kept seeing red." Their voice is so tired. He squeezes them and presses a kiss to their waistcoat. This, plus his crying spell makes him begin to cough. After several hacks, Beelze pulls free and goes to pour him a glass of water from the carafe by the bed. They hand him the glass and brush their fingers across the backs of his fingers as they do so.

He drinks deeply, only coughing a few times more. When he lowers the glass, Crowley is looking at him, eyes more focused than before.

"Could I have some too?" he asks, still hoarse. Before Beelze can help, Gabriel moves the netting to sit on the edge of the bed, then hoists the companion up. Crowley grunts in pain, but reaches out to grasp Gabriel's the half-filled glass. The King helps tip back the cup and Crowley drinks. Beelze moves Gabriel's desk and letters to his chair, then climbs onto the bed where the items had rested. They lay down and pillow their head on Crowley's shin. 

Gabriel helps Crowley lay down again, then sets the glass on the sidetable. A sea breeze rustles into the room. The candles sputter and the netting around the bed rustles. Gabriel leans against the headboard of the bed. Suddenly surrpised, he looks up and studies the top of the bed.

"You haven't hung your Unity Cords."

Crowley reaches up with his uninjured arm and pokes at his bandage. Beelze swats his knee and his hand retracts. "I wanted to wait for Aziraphale. I thought we could do it together." He sounds resigned. Gabriel feels a flare of panic.

"He'll be back. I can change the wording of my note and give him the order to return," he states, feeling as if he avoids saying this, Crowley might drift away.

Crowley closes his eyes and scrunches his face in thought. "What did you say in the letter first?"

Gabriel looks down to meet Beelze's eye. They reach out and lay their hand on his leg. 

"I gave him options. No repercussions for returning here," he admits. 

"If this kills me," Crowley comments absently, even as Beelze gives a scared yelp, "I want fireworks at my funeral. And ice cream. Burn me and stick me in a teapot."

Beelze tightens their grip on the King's leg. He presses his other leg overtop their hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. They grimace up at him, trying to maintain calm. 

"Aziraphale has more use for book-related items," Gabriel comments, trying for levity. Beelze pinches him. Crowley snickers.

"Maybe a bookend then. When he goes he can be the other side. We'd be a matched set." His giggles turn a little manic and suddenly, he's blinking heavy eyelids. "I'm going to sleep again, I think."

"It's the pain potion," Gabriel guesses, knowing nothing of the sort. 

"You'll stay?" Crowley asks, like a child. He is looking up at the ceiling, so Gabriel isn't sure of its intended audience. 

Beelze presses their cheek harder into Crowley's shin. "Go to sleep, little brother. We'll stay." They sit up and grab Gabriel's legs. They tug him down until he's laying more on the bed. Then they shimmy up to lay between them. Beelze slings themselves across the King's chest.

"No doing the dirty in my marriage bed," Crowley croaks. "I haven't even gotten to fully break it in."

A flash thought of his baby brother naked and having sex makes Gabriel choke.

"Easy there, Sire," Beelze teases, clearly knowing the source of his discomfort. He pokes them in the side and then squeezes their waist. He listens to Crowley's rough breathing, then presses his nose to Beelze's head. He inhales deeply. He smells olive oil and clementines. 

He will finish his letter to Queen Michael when he wakes. It is the right thing to do--too many people have died that week already. 


	12. The Homestretch Campaign

Aziraphale knew the generals were incompetent. Their ineptitude in the last seventeen hours, however, had reached a new peak. The prince gnashes his teeth as he enters Fellstone Keep. He tugs his gauntlets free and hands it them and his helmet to the squire at his side.

“Go get some food in you, boy,” he orders, then motioning to his kit, “I can sort this out.” The squire jogs off.

The prince snarls when he enters the great hall to see these amateurs sitting around his table, drinking his fine wine.

“Celebrating your defeat, you curs?” he insults, throwing his legionary-like shoulder plates onto the table in front of them. “Drinking from my stores without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’ from your host?”

One of the generals blanches and stammers, “We did not know—“

Another argues, “You no longer live here, Your Grace—“

“This has been my home from the time I was three,” he snaps as he unwinds his body armor from his waist. “More importantly, gentlemen,” he sneers, “I was on the field with my soldiers, while you sat here and drank to your so-called genius, which has yielded us nothing but corpses.”

He slams the body armor onto the table so that their wine glasses rattle. Mud splatters across their maps and documents. “Who ordered the retreat on the left flank?” he demands.

The generals each look accusingly at one another before a small man at the corner of the table raises his hand.

“Why, you fool, did you do that?”

The general stammers, “I found that the enemy was too great—“

“You cost our legionaries ten-score the casualties than we expected.”

“I just wanted victory—“

Aziraphale yells, “And earned us defeat!” He breathes heavily. He closes his eyes and modulates his volume. “In future, all of you will be on the field during every moment of battle. And you will follow the battle plan that we agreed on.”

Another general snorts. “And who put you in charge?”

Aziraphale glares at him. “The Prince Regent.”

The general lifts his glass and then sets it down again. “And does he know of your defeat?”

Aziraphale channels Crowley’s snake-like eyes and smiles with, what he hopes is his consort’s shit-eating smirk. “Oh, my platoon took prisoners and gained ground. Unfortunately, the left flank retreated and we had to stem the flow of combatants, so we did not gain as much as I had hoped.”

The general shifts uncomfortably. Apparently, he was one of those who believed Sandalphon’s narrative. When faced with the opposite, he seems unsure of himself. Aziraphale stands there before them. He is wearing his chainmail, woolen tunic and breeches, and tall boots. He is sweaty and muddy. He cannot feel anything but tired muscles and anger.

That’s when the generals remember that the Prince Regent sent him a leather-bound envelope of three letters. The letters are about a week old. The prince snatches these up and checks each seal. Two, sealed with the court’s official stamp, have been opened.

“Explain yourselves,” he demands, holding up the offending parchments. The seals flap loose.

The generals glance at one another nervously. Aziraphale has had enough.

“You are no longer welcome in my hall or my walls. You will sleep in tents along with the men in the bailey.” When they do not move, he smiles viciously at them. “Get out. Now.”

They scramble to obey, each glaring at him or looking at each other in alarm. Aziraphale visibly sags when they’re outside his doors again. He unfolds the letters that the generals have apparently already read. The first is the official announcement that Prince Metatron has been killed. The second is the proclamation that strips Sandalphon of his titles and lands.

These, Aziraphale tosses onto the table. Those idiots assumed that the letters from the Prince Regent are personal correspondence as if Gabriel only send information in official envelopes.

The letter from Gabriel leaves his already tired knees weak. He stumbles forward and grabs onto a chair to keep himself upright. His mother is dead. He bows forward, holding the parchment to his chest. Can there be any more grief that this world could pile onto him?

When he can read again, he looks back at the letter. Yes, the world has more.

“Oh bless the gods, Crowley,” he moans. His body pulls taunt and then gives up any pretense of holding him up. He slides down the chair and curls onto himself.

He lays there and cries. Then, tears spent, he pulls himself toward the fire. He’s too tired to stand.

His brother and mother dead. Another brother is stripped of his birthright. Someone tried to kill the King. His companion saved him… only to be injured and possibly dying.

Worse, this letter is almost seven days old. The distance for delivery, plus his absence from the Keep, has made its arrival this late. Crowley could be in the grave.

He rubs his eyes and considers his options. It’s at least a three day ride to return to the palace. If Crowley is well, he will receive him with joy. If Crowley is dead, what will it matter?

Aziraphale looks down to the letter and sees the second piece of parchment, this one blood-stained, folded into his brother’s letter. His heart breaks as he reads the words in the beloved hand: Crowley begs to come to Fellstone Keep, then informs him gently of his mother’s death, then gives interrupted drivel to help soothe his pain.

Is this love? He rereads the blood-lined page. “If I could, I would wear your face into battle to keep you safe.” Then he skims down to “Bid me come—I will let you lose yourself in me as you wish. All you need do is call for me.”

It makes his pulse accelerate, yet comforts him in a way that he desperately desires. He should go to Crowley. If Crowley is still alive to go to—a fever should not injure such a strong man. Then again, an assassination attempt! No one has told him what has occurred. What had happened to his companion?

Aziraphale lays his head on the chair cushion by the fire. Ideas, grief, and exhaustion war for his attention.Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.

He wakes when someone touches his shoulder. “Your Grace?” asks Anathema. She is holding her riding gloves and is still dressed as if she’s come directly from the road. Newt stands behind her, biting his lip. At his side is the lieutenant from the beheading mission.

“Oh, oh my dear,” Aziraphale comments, struggling to sit up properly. The parchment in his hand wrinkles. Anathema looks down at it.

“Oh my, bless the goddess,” she breathes as her eyes take in the words.

Aziraphale looks down and sighs before he stands. “It’s a lot to hear at once. Forgive me, friends, my heart is very heavy.”

“The Queen is dead?” Anathema clarifies.

Tears spring anew to the prince’s eyes. “It is so. All hail the King.”

The other three repeat this, equally as dispirited.

“Someone has made an attempt on his life? Crowley is injured?” Anathema looks very alarmed.

“All true,” Aziraphale admits as he sinks into his chair. “And we are about to be overrun. Michael has played with the generals and their ineptitude like a cat with a mouse. She even gave away ground to my platoon today so that she could seize another side of the field.”

Newt looks to the other lieutenant and bids them come closer.

“We heard that it was not going well,” he admits. “We’ve come with our squads to change the course.”

“You are most welcome,” Aziraphale admits. “Pray, my dear lieutenant, what is your name?”

The woman gives a sharp bow, “Agnus Nutter, Your Grace.”

“Lieutenant Nutter. Welcome to our service.” She gives another bow to this.

Anathema is watching Aziraphale closely. “What will you do? Go to Crowley or stay in this horror show?”

Aziraphale looks down to the letters clutched in his hand. He traces around blood splatter with a worried finger.

“What is the right answer? If he is truly taken ill, then I should be there to comfort him. If he is already gone, then I should be here to lead my new King into victory.”

Anathema looks into the fire. Newt speaks. “And what if we end this battle quickly and send you on your way?”

Everyone looks at him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Something crazy,” he admits. “It came to me when we turned on Wiess’s forces in that field.”

His plan is not fancy and it will require every able-bodied soldier that they have. If it fails, then Azirpahale accepts that he will be dead. If they win, however, this would be the final defeat for Michael, as her forces will be decimated.

In two hours, bathed and fed, Aziraphale calls for the troops to assemble. He addresses them.

“We bear news of from the palace. I want to crush rumors before they run rampant. It is true that my mother, the Queen has passed away. The Queen is dead, all hail the King!”

Voices ring out calling “All hail King Gabriel!”

Once these die away, Aziraphale continues, “We have suffered great losses these last battles. That ends tonight. In the early hours of the dawn, we will strike and end this conflict. See your platoons for your orders. Dismissed.”

And then he goes to his bed and sleeps for three hours. In the predawn darkness, he gives his orders. The useless generals will take the field with three companies worth of fighters. Nutter and Pulsifer will take their squads, plus some strong archers to the North. And the mass of the battalions will join Aziraphale and march from Celestial Harmonies Bay and attack from the right flank, where the southern camp of Michael’s troops rest. Finally, the one schooner in the area will sail up alongside Newt and Agnes’s position and attack from the water.

It’s the riskiest battle plan he’s ever seen. He has no chance to second guess this.

He leads the march south.

In the early gray light, the generals order a frontal charge in the same manner as they have for days. Michael’s forces defend but aren’t surprised by this plan. Once the battle is truly engaged, Newt and Agnes’s forces begin to launch flaming arrows from the north. Michael’s troops turn and begin to charge the north.

Canons blast from the schooner and knock them back. As the sun breaks the horizon, Aziraphale leads the charge. They swamp the camp like guerrilla soldiers and then run over into the troops. Michael’s fighters are completely caught off guard, many still in tents and unarmed. They fell the fighters quickly, then surround Michael’s forces from the right flank.

The battle rages for less than four hours. At its end, Aziraphale allows the generals to give the orders to chase down those enemies who fled the battle. Queen Michael kneels on the ground before the prince, her hands braced on her head. Aziraphale holds his sword at her throat.

“And you yield?” he asks. She nods, then spits blood into the dirt.

Irons are brought and she is chained.

Still covered in grime from the battle, Aziraphale drags her to a wagon, then climbs up into the seat. He lifts the reigns and then gives a nod to a squire who lets go of the horse’s bridles.

“We are off to the palace. Send a rested guard to accompany us,” he orders a Captain.

Michael is silent in the wagon, surrounded by guards in the cart and on foot. Another legionary takes over the reins from the prince at some point. He slumps against the seat and sleeps for hours. When he wakes, it is early evening.

They ride through the early dark of night, lit only by lanterns and torches. Aziraphale climbs down and walks beside the wagon in the darkness. When he escorted the new princess to Gabriel years ago, the ride had taken a week, but they had stopped at night. He will have to order a break soon, but the sooner he is home, the better.

They camp in a farmer’s plowed-up field, surrounded by vast, star-filled skies. Michael is silent. Aziraphale stays her side.

“Your Majesty,” he addresses her and she scoffs. “Would you like another blanket?”

She ignores him and looks up to the sky. Aziraphale shrugs and takes the watch.

They ride when the morning fog has burned off. The guards are all yawning, but Michael looks bored. The road stretches out before them like a question. It circles around again and again in Aziraphale’s mind.

Does Crowley live?


	13. Advent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the reunion chapter. Unfortunately, this happened. 
> 
> No lie... the plot just made it happen. Does anyone else write like that? Things just happen and you're at the mercy of your brain and fingers to get it on the page?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking this out and reading :)

Crowley lays on a chaise lounger off the balcony of his and Aziraphale’s main sitting area. He’s decided on a wrap dress today, not because it suits him and how he feels that day, but because putting it on jostles his injured shoulder less. Said injury is held in place with an arm sling. It makes drawing hard, but it’s one of the only pastimes he is allowed.

The court physicians believe that his fever was brought on by an infection from the stab wound, which grazed his clavicle bone. It had taken about four days to burn off. He still feels weak. Following its departure, the companion has been subjected to pokes and prods from a number of acupuncturists and healers.

His back is better than its ever been before, after their many hours of work. Even still, he’s stiff. He grimaces as bends his knees up. His skirt flutters in the sea wind, so he pins it down behind his knees, and then rests his drawing pad against them. Crowley sketches from memory, letting the charcoal trace the one person he longs to be near.

No one has heard from Aziraphale in days. In fact, all they have are rumors from the battlefield. Some speak to generals fleeing in disgrace, others to the capture of Queen Michael, and others to the blazing failure of King Gabriel’s forces.

The King enters the balcony and gazes out at the water. Crowley moves to stand and give his bow, but the King waves him back into his seat. They’re not friends, exactly. Gabriel certainly feels that he owes Crowley some sort of debt, but Crowley wishes it were more just from respecting their mutual love of Beelze. That is more palatable. No matter the reason, he has been a common guest in his chambers these days.

The air of despair that hangs about the King is present again this morning. Despondently, Gabriel watches the waves roll in. “I’ve sent an envoy to the Eastern Gate. I hope to have word back soon.”

Crowley doesn’t ask how soon that will be. Instead, he focuses on drawing the smooth ridge of Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple. Gabriel drifts to his side and looks at his work.

“That’s lovely— _oh_ ,” the King must suddenly recognize the pillowy tummy and muscled neck thrown back in passion, even without a face. Crowley smirks.

“He is beautiful, Your Highness.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, my dear boy,” Aziraphale replies from the doorway. Crowley practically throws his sketchpad in surprise, as flails his limbs in an attempt to stand. The King is already facing the Prince, who kneels.

Aziraphale looks like he came straight from battle. He is still wearing the mud-covered woolens that protect his skin from chainmail. His skin in smeared with ash and dirt, although it appears he wiped ineffectually at it.

“My King and brother, I, Aziraphale, do pledge my allegiance and loyalty to you, King Gabriel the first. I am your obedient servant. I serve to protect your kingdom." He bows his head low, but Gabriel drops his hand onto his brother’s head. Then he falls to his knees as well and tugs his younger brother into a hug.

“Thank the gods that you are safe,” he blesses, his voice scratchy.

Aziraphale pulls back from the embrace with a tired smile. “I bring you a gift, brother.”

Gabriel stands and pulls the prince up to his feet. “Your return in a present enough to me and Crowley, I should think.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a quick, sweet smile before returning his focus to the King. It makes Crowley’s heart sing.

“I have captured the Queen Michael. She is your prisoner, Sire.”

Crowley gapes, but Gabriel just stares. “You… what?”

“I will have to beg your forgiveness on some points,” he hypothesizes while his fingers fidget above his waist. “I seem to have completely ignored all advice from your generals and then taken control of the entire battle by lying that you’d given me the order.”

Gabriel stands there slack-jawed. “You took Michael, prisoner? You won?” His voice is at least an octave higher than usual.

“We decimated them,” Aziraphale announces, without an ounce of pity. “They will no longer challenge your borders, Sire.”

Oh, this is Crowley’s bastard angel. He cannot take it anymore. He rips his sunglasses off, darts forward, and wraps his good arm around Aziraphale. He gives a whimper of pain when the prince latches onto him. Instead of letting him release him, he tightens his grip on Aziraphale.

“My darling,” the prince whispers, concerned. “What happened?” He touches the sling without letting go of Crowley.

Crowley laughs with a hiss of pain. Gabriel, however, takes over.

“He saved my life. Dowling tried to stab me and Crowley took the dagger for me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he begins to pull Crowley’s collar aside.

“Easy, my prince,” Crowley utters, trying to dodge Aziraphale’s hands as they pick at the edge of his bandage.

“I will go see to Michael. This will change some,” the King pauses, looking thoughtfully, “diplomatic efforts we have made.”

Aziraphale looks momentarily concerned. “I did not mean to—“

“Worry not, brother. You have done more than I could have ever dreamed. I owe you and Crowley my crown.” He nods and leaves them.

Crowley immediately presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “You’re here.”

The prince rubs his companion’s arm, “I am.”

The _oiran_ can’t help himself, he kisses the prince again. “I wasn’t sure—I mean, I knew you were a competent soldier—I haven’t heard, I mean, you didn’t write—“

“Oh my darling, I have neglected you with all that business. Please, forgive me.”

Crowley feels his face breaking with the force of his smile. “Of course, angel. Let me take care of you?”

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to argue, but Crowley ignores it all. Using his good arm, he tugs the prince toward his chambers and ensuite. Once inside the doorway, he starts tugging at the disgusting clothing and throwing them on the floor in a pile.

“Is this blood?” he asks, haltingly. His hand freezes.

Aziraphale nods, sadly, “We lost many fighters. It’s not mine,” he comforts, when Crowley frowns.

He leaves the prince to fill the tub but finds that he cannot stop looking over his shoulder back to Aziraphale. He watches Crowley with a tender expression, which is completely at odds with the smoke stains on his cheeks. He shucks his worn boots and then strips out of his clothes. Naked, it is apparent there is even mud caked to the skin that was covered. He grimaces.

“It’s not exactly how I wanted to look for our reunion,” he admits.

Crowley rises, feeling his back twinge. He holds out his hand and takes Aziraphale’s.

“You’re home,” he declares, and his voice cracks. He clears his throat but finds this only makes his voice shakier. “It’s enough.”

Without another thought, he leans forward and presses another kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth. Then, before he loses control of himself and begins to inspect the prince for wounds, he helps him into the tub.

As he gathers a flannel, Aziraphale argues, “You are too injured to be caring for me. You may sit with me, but you may not bathe me.”

Crowley freezes in his process of kneeling and glares. “I am not an invalid, no matter how everyone has been treating me.”

“One of us suffered a wound,” Aziraphale snaps back, “and it was nearly mortal if I understand correctly!”

He reaches over the side of the tub and snatches the flannel from Crowley. The consort feels something rupture in his chest. Angry tears flood his eyes, to his embarrassment.

“Have I disappointed you?”

The prince looks up from rubbing the flannel with soap. Surprised at what he sees, he drops both into the bathwater.

“My darling, Crowley, no, no, my dear. You’ve been so brave.” He holds out his dripping wet hand and Crowley presses his cheek to it. “I just should have been here. I am supposed to protect you, but I couldn’t even leave the Eastern Gate to come and see you.” He strokes Crowley’s cheek with his thumb. “I have probably disappointed you.”

Crowley gives a sharp laugh. “You? The heir to the throne who captured the warrior queen to the East? You’re right, I’m downright ashamed to be bound to you.” He laughs gently, his eyes wrinkling with mirth. “I know people have not seen you for your value before, Aziraphale, but I know you. I’d like to get you clean so that I can take you to bed and show you how proud of you I am.”

He’s slightly embarrassed to say this aloud, but the instant shock it brings to the prince’s face is worth it.

“So you’re saying, if I let you wash my back,” Aziraphale teases, lifting the flannel from the water, “we can be in bed faster?”

Crowley cups his good hand and scoops water to drip over Aziraphale’s chest. “Essentially, yes.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darken and he sticks his entire head under the water pouring from the cistern in a bid to be washed faster. Crowley throws his head back in a guffaw.

No matter their combined efforts, it takes draining and refilling the tub for Aziraphale to look clean. He still needs a shave, but he promises to complete that later.

“Go order us some cocoa and sandwiches, darling,” Aziraphale suggests as he pads over to his saddlebags to collect his toothbrush.

Crowley completely stops what he is doing to take in the round bottom presented to him as the prince leans over. Unable to help himself, he slinks closer and cups the bare white skin in his hand. Aziraphale jumps in surprise but then gives a toothy smile over his shoulder.

“Ring the bell, please,” he gently orders and then slides away from Crowley’s touch. The companion is tempted to follow him just to be mischievous but instead does as he was instructed.

He takes the time to saunter over to Aziraphale’s room and collect his dressing gown and slippers. These he offers to the prince as he exits the ensuite.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he replies. Crowley frowns when he tries to work out how to hold the dressing gown open with only one hand, but Aziraphale takes it from him in exchange for a kiss.

“Now,” the prince says, “tell me about this.” He touches the back of Crowley’s hand that hangs in the sling.

He directs them into the sitting area, where they cuddle close on the sofa. Crowley tells him of the strange day when the Queen died and Dowling tried to assassinate the new king. During his retelling, the prince gently touches the elbow of Crowley’s injured arm. He studies Crowley’s shoulder, before turning his attention to the companion’s face.

“What were you thinking? Taking on a man with a knife?” he scolds softly. Crowley smiles indulgently at him.

“Shall I let the King be rendered into two pieces next time, then?”

“I would never have such a thing. I would also not ever have you injured.” He touches Crowley’s cheek reverently.

His countenance changes slowly. Aziraphale is troubled.

“Those events are…strangely timed.”

Crowley bites his lip, then decides to share what he knows. “Lord Sable seemed to think that I was responsible for the Queen’s death.”

Aziraphale sits up sharply. “He what?”

“He arrested and bought me before the King. Of course, I still thought he was the Prince Regent, so I put my foot it in a bit.” Aziraphale is making disjointed, sputtering noises of anger. “Anyway, for my money, I think the Queen’s death is probably murder, but for whose benefit? Gabriel and Beelze both think that more trouble is still afoot. Proclaiming the intention to keep Sandalphon and Uriel alive may have settled the hornets’ nest for now.”

There is a knock at the door and Adam appears carrying a tray without being bid to enter.

“Prince Aziraphale!” he calls, excitedly. “You’re back from the war! I heard you took a pirate ship and attacked Queen Michael and made her apologize to King Gabriel!”

He hurriedly sets down the requested tray of goodies and continues to talk animatedly. “And I heard that there was a giant bear that you convinced to fight for your side and that it slew all the troops with one big swipe of its paw!”

“Well, my boy, I am sorry to report that there was no bear.”

Adam looks disappointed before suddenly bucking back up to his previous level of enthusiasm. “You really took a pirate ship?” He makes no bow, just runs out yelling for Wensleydale. The door slams shut in his wake. Crowley shakes his head in amusement. He loves that kid.

Aziraphale grins at Crowley, “Cocoa, darling?”

They spend their afternoon there, wound around each other, sharing kisses and nibbles of food. Crowley has never spent better hours in his life. There is no expectation of their touches and no desire to separate. They are interrupted by a knock.

“Another physician,” Crowley grumbles, before calling, “Enter!”

Crowley leans forward to stand. A slight tightness in his spine makes him pull a face. He tries to hide his pain, but Aziraphale is fully focused on him.

“My darling?”

“Childhood injury has been acting up since Sable kicked me—“

“And I should have done so, much, much harder,” Lord Sable declares with a vicious grin.

Crowley scrambles to his feet. He feels Aziraphale join him, but he stands much slower. Crowley angles himself between the prince and the Lord. Sable is holding a sharp rapier on them.

“What is the meaning of this?” Aziraphale asks with command.

“I would assume it was obvious?” Sable asks, waving the sword. “Political coup?” he continues rhetorically.

“Call the guards, Crowley,” Aziraphale decides, irritably.

“What guards?” Sable tuts. “The guards who work for me? Yeah, they’re not coming.”

Crowley feels an iota of panic building. “Angel, you need to go to the King.”

“I’m not leaving you here with this lunatic,” Aziraphale insists.

Crowley steps back and bumps the prince with his hip. “Get going. Sable has all the guards on his side. You need to protect the crown. I’ve got this.”

As he says it, he slides his injured arm from its sling. He bites down against the pain, already formulating a plan. “I’ll be behind you as quickly as I can.”

Aziraphale must know the truth in Crowley’s words because he is inching backward around the sofa toward the door. Sable turns the point of his sword from Crowley to the prince.

“I’m very sorry to tell you that you’re not going anywhere,” Sable glowers. Crowley takes this distraction as his chance. With the grace of a dancer and the speed of a serpent, he grabs the cocoa thermos. It’s about two hours old, but he prays it’s still hot.

He throws the liquid into Sable’s face. In pain, the lord roars, drops his sword, and claws at his face. Crowley swings the silver insulated pot with all his strength into the side of Sable’s head. As Lord Sable falls, Crowley drops the pot, jumps over the back of the sofa, and runs out the door.

Aziraphale is not as far ahead of him as he had hoped. Both are barefoot and Aziraphale is clearly stiff. Crowley takes long strides to catch up with him.

“Angel, he’s going to come after us!”

“Steady, my dear,” Aziraphale soothes, leading them at his asthmatic jog up to the throne room.

They glance into the room but see no evidence of the King. Strangely, the room is also completely absent of guards. The hair on the back of Crowley’s neck stands up.

“Their chambers?” Aziraphale suggests, angling to climb the stairs.

Something seems wrong with that assumption. Crowley looks back into the throne room and a gust of sea air drifts in. He knows the door that is open to access the sea.

“Your mother's crypt.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he makes a sharp turn into the throne room. They hurry through the room and through the back hallways of the court, before they exit into the far courtyard. They are now on the opposite side of the palace from their own chambers and far from the King’s place in the Keep. 

They hurry on, but Crowley can feel his shoulder pulsing with each heartbeat. There is no time to stop. He certainly doesn’t want to mention this to Aziraphale either.

The iron gate to the mausoleum swings open in the afternoon air. Crowley looks behind them and they descend the steps into the crypt.

Torches are lit further into the crypt, but so far they walk in the dark. As they get closer to the bottom, they can hear voices.

“Bee! Bee,” Gabriel is begging, “wake up. Sweetheart, wake up.”

Crowley feels his blood chill. They turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs. There is the tomb of the recently-deceased queen. She has not been put to her funeral pyre yet, so her mortal form lays out on a stone slab. In her dead hands, the court has places her orb and scepter. When she goes to the flames, these will be given to the new monarch.

The King is crouched at her feet, cradling Beelze in his arms. Beelze’s head lolls bonelessly.Guards surround them, and their swords are drawn. Some see Crowley and Aziraphale and turn to hold them at their blade tip. Crowley itches to dash past them and help his sibling.

“So the mutiny goes this far?” Aziraphale questions primly. He almost sounds disappointed. “And what have you done with poor Beelze?”

Gabriel looks up at them with glassy eyes. Crowley’s heart sinks when he does. Blood stains the front of Gabriel’s tunic and pools around their feet. Crowley can’t tell if the blood is his or Beelze. Either way, his skin is so pale.

“They won’t wake up,” the King laments, before turning his attention back to Beelze. He strokes their face and leaves a streak of blood across their cheek.

Aziraphale stands to his full height and gazes at each guard in turn. “You are all a disgrace. I am not sure what Sable has promised you—“

“Again,” Sable interrupts as he joins them at the base of the stairs, “as I said, it’s a regime change. They want to be on the winning side."

Crowley notes that cocoa has stained his clothes. He smirks. “How’s the head?” he asks.

Sable gives him a black look, but before Crowley can react, he stabs forward with his blade. Crowley would have accepted it if it were aimed at him. However, Sable must know him better than he realized. The blade is aimed directly at Aziraphale's stomach, but Crowley shoves him out of the way and they fall into the stone wall.

Gabriel yells. Aziraphale struggles to sit up as Crowley is right on top of him. Crowley feels the telltale signs of being stabbed for the second time in two weeks.

“Crowley, Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale panics, reaching over the companion’s back and pressing his hands to the new wound. Crowley yowls like a scalded cat when he applies pressure.

From the angle he lays across Aziraphale’s lap, Crowley can see the King slowly rocking Beelze. His face is drawn in like shutters on a window.

“Beelze, you arsehole,” Crowley snarls, “wake up and take care of Gabriel.”

“They’re dead,” Sable observes, wiping his own blade on the stone wall. “Now, we’re going to leave you down here to watch the _oirans_ bleed out. Should be a fun evening with the old balls and chains, right?”

Beelze’s eyelashes flutter and they groan. Crowley gives a gasp of gratitude. Béḃinn hasn't deserted them yet! He reaches up to kiss his fingers and he has an idea. It’s a risk. It’s beyond that, really. He presses the kiss to his sigil and struggles to pull free from Aziraphale’s hold.

“Crowley,” the prince reprimands, his voice thick with unshed tears, “we need to apply pressure.”

Crowley grits his teeth against the multitudes of new and old pains. He rises.

Aziraphale clamors to stand at his side and then claps hands over Crowley’s back again. He hisses in pain.

“What did Sandalphon promise you?” he finally manages through his agony.

Sable snickers. Aziraphale corrects. “Oh, my dearest darling, he’s not working for my brother. He is one of Michael’s pawns.”

Crowley’s job often depends on reading expressions. He sees the quark of Sable’s eyebrow: this is a surprise.

“Who said that I was working with the Queen?”

Aziraphale gives a predatory smile, “I do.” Sable looks uneasy about the eyes but stands his ground. “It was all too orchestrated, you see. Drag us to the rebellion in the West only to have it fall apart as soon as Metatron was arrested? Then onto a war where Michael’s armies could have bested our generals a hundred times over? Now, this melodrama?” He nods all around them as if he's not trying to stave off bloodloss from his lover.

Sable puckers his lips as if about to pout. Instead, he turns this into a wicked grin. “Sure, it wasn’t quite as neat as we would have liked. Unfortunately, Metatron and Sandalphon were far weaker than the Queen assumed.”

Crowley feels a little dizzy. He leans into Aziraphale. As he does so, he counts the guards. Five plus Sable. His plan is going to take some fast footwork. He hopes he can pull it off while being this unsteady.

“Besides, killing the companions is just for sport. Michael wants to take Gabriel’s head off in public, but you Aziraphale, it’s personal with you. Two very public defeats from the youngest brother of a Prince Regent? She’s hurt, you know.”

Crowley notes that the guards are more attentive to the conversation than keeping an eye on them.

In a smooth motion, he spins out of Aziraphale’s arms and rips the sash of his dress free. It flutters about him, which gives the first guard poor aim for his saber. It sticks into the dress and then clatters to the floor when Crowley wrenches himself out of the garment. He uses this guard’s forward momentum to pull him off balance by the wrist and onto the floor. Then with a very calculated leap, Crowley jumps onto the stone stab above the Queen’s corpse.He grabs the holy orb and chucks it with all his might at another guard’s head. It impacts with a solid “thunk” and the guard falls. Crowley scoops up the scepter and tosses it to Aziraphale.

The prince wields this like a sword to parry the blow that Sable swings his way. With his bare toes, he grabs the handle of the blade twisted in Crowley's dress and tosses it into the air to catch with his other hand. The black dress swings like a standard in battle from the sword.

Crowley is mesmerized for a moment. Aziraphale swings the scepter with one hand like a mace and fights with the rapier. It’s beyond sexy. 

Another guard charges Aziraphale as Sable falls back. Aziraphale’s sword plunges deep into this man’s rib cage in one smooth motion. He does not bother to retrieve it, instead taking the dying man’s blade. Crowley's dress flitters down over the man's chest like a burial shroud. 

“Crowley!” the prince shouts when he sees another guard charging the funeral slab. Crowley jumps from the slab and lands on the man’s chest, feet first. His saber tumbles away. Crowley grabs the guard by the shoulders and slams his head onto the stone floor as hard as he can.

Fireworks explode behind his eyes as he jars his shoulder. He bites down hard on his molars and slams the guard’s skull into the floor again. Just then, something bright and sharp stabs into his side. Crowley drops his hold on the guard to see another blade pulling free of his side where it’s pierced his skin.

“Seriously?” he slurs. “What am I? A pincushion?”

The guard raises his sword again, but just then Gabriel slams a headstone marker into the man’s back. He stumbles forward and Gabriel retrieves one of the lost blades. He dispatches this guard and the other left standing with brief slashes. They fall, bleeding and dying.

Crowley struggles to stand. Hot blood drips down his side and back. His shoulder pulses with his heart in more pronounced beats. Coupled with the sharp, angry pains from his back and hips, he feels a little lightheaded. He stumbles against the stone slab and glances down at the decomposing corpse of his mother-in-law the Queen.

“Do you see this shit?” he comments to her, his words slurring worse than before. “This is your fault, you harpy.”

Blades slash against one another in a shriek of metal. Crowley looks up, feeling like the world is moving in slow motion. Aziraphale and Sable are still fighting, but it’s not evenly matched. Sable fights with a courtly flourish, but Aziraphale, fresh from the battlefield, fights like he’s going to win at any cost.

Gabriel knows that his brother will fell his opponent. Therefore, armed with a blade, he leans down and lifts Beelze from the floor. Their body hangs limb in his arms. He steps over the dead and dying to the exit. He climbs the unlit stairs to seek help.

Aziraphale stabs forward and drives his blade into the soft flesh of Sable’s throat. He gives a surprised grunt and then blood splits out his lips. Aziraphale lets go of the sword and steps back. His dressing gown has several new slices in it and blood slicks his bare feet. His arm and neck are injured, with blood beading up on the cuts.

Crowley gives a grunt that he means to be Aziraphale’s name. Instead, he finds himself unable to stand. He slams, face first, into the stone slab, and slides down to the floor. His prince is there immediately, gathering him into his arms. There is a distant ringing and Crowley feels hot all over. His ears buzz. Dark, frantic squiggles dance around the edges of his vision.

The torch on the wall casts a ring of light around the prince’s head.

“My angel,” he hisses, noting the halo of fire. Then he passes out.


	14. A Denouement of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. There were so many errors in the previous chapter. SORRY. Now edited. I hope I caught them all. I'm so stupid tired, so if I missed some here too, I'll catch them later, blush a lot, then fix them!

Without pause, Aziraphale scoops Crowley against his chest. Blood seems to pour from everywhere—his side, his back, and now his nose.

“Crowley?” he asks, his voice shattered. He receives no response, so he lifts the companion up and begins the ascent into the evening’s light. Panic is laced in his throat, but overlaid with the exhaustion he feels as he leaves the battlefield. He has to remind himself to stay in the moment and not to retreat into his mind. Crowley needs him.

Someone moves on the edge of the courtyard but stays in the shadows. Aziraphale regrets his choice to leave all the weapons in the crypt. He faces off with whoever lurks there.

Adam steps out of the shadows. Aziraphale nearly sags in relief. The boy's face is drawn in horror. “Is Crowley dead?” he gasps.

“No, Adam, but we need help. I need you to go to a healer and get them here quickly.”

Adam swallows and nods. His eyes don’t leave Crowley’s face. “The King said to avoid the guards. He said I had to find Wensleydale and Brian and hide.”

“Adam, dearest, Beelze and Crowley need a doctor very badly. I need you to do this for me.”

Adam sucks his teeth and nods vigorously, then he looks confused, “Why aren’t you wearing clothes?”

Of all the questions that Aziraphale expects, this one makes him start. “Ugh, we were attacked—“

“In your underwear?” Adam asks scandalized. Before Aziraphale can answer, Adam scampers off toward the wall and exits through a servant’s entrance. Aziraphale shifts Crowley’s weight and feels the sticky mess that is soaking into this dressing gown. He hopes that a healer will not be too late.

He looks down at Crowley. His head sags against his chest. His breathing is shallow and labored. He shakes himself out of his stupor and staggers to find something to press to Crowley’s wounds. He nearly falls onto the dais in the throne room.

Gabriel is already there. He’s ripped down the curtain that circles the dais and presses it to Beelze’s stomach. Aziraphale sets Crowley down next to them and tugs another curtain free. He rolls Crowley up so that he can slide the fabric under his back and against his side.

The pressure surprises Crowley coherent and his eyes fly open in pain. He gives a breathless, silent scream, then seems to reign it in.

“I’m so sorry, my darling, hold on.” Someone enters the throne room behind them and Aziraphale tears himself away to face off with the intruder.

Shadwell stands there, welding a giant spoon. “Why are you out in your knickers, you Southern Pansy?” he growls. He must see the King then because his eyes widen and he tries to bow.

“Shadwell, we need help. They’ve been stabbed. Find the medical kit!”

The kitchen assistant stands there, frozen at the approaching sound of boots. Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, who coughs without any energy. There is no weapon to defend them all with. He will be a shield then.

Lieutenant Nutter races into the throne room followed by her squad. “Your Grace!” she shouts, “Captain Device has taken her people up to the tower—wait, Medic!” She interrupts herself and points to the dais.

A woman runs from the line, shoving her saber into her scabbed and pulling a bundle free. She drops to Beelze’s side and begins to tie a pressure dressing onto their stomach. They quickly shift to Crowley and follow this action twice. As she administers a pain potion, Aziraphale hears a nearing battle.

“To arms,” he commands and Nutter’s squad all take up defensive positions. The prince himself looks around the room for a blade. The King stands, looking slightly less lost than before, and hands his sword to his brother. Aziraphale gives a sharp nod and takes up his position.

“Sire, could you close off those doors so we don’t get ambushed from behind?” he asks Gabriel. Aziraphale does not wait to see if this gets done because guards surge into the room.

The prince appreciates that they do have the element of surprise on their side, both because Agnes’ troop is backup, but also because they’re still alive.

Unfortunately for the former palace guards, Aziraphale is not in a forgiving mood. He fights with deadly accuracy. Two guards fall to his blade.

Each opponent is a step closer to the hall where he sees his brother Sandalphon and Queen Michael. They’re surrounded by guards and dressed for travel. Desperation and revenge surge through Aziraphale. He charges and matches blades with a guard.

This one is more trained than those he had faced yet. He immediately must adjust his technique to more delicate swordplay than the chopping and hacking cuts he has been using. His foe parries every one of his attacks, which gives time for Sandalphon’s escape. 

He opens a secret panel in the wall that previous courts used to provide ice to the throne room during parties. Michael gives a frustrated look, then slips into the passage.

“Stop them!” Aziraphale yells and gives another sweep of his rapier.

Agnes and three of her soldiers give chase. Aziraphale is engaged and unable to follow. The guard fighting him seems pleased, then thrusts. Aziraphale tries to dodge, but his bare feet slip on the marble floor. The blade slices through his ear lobe. He yells in pain then drives his sword down into the man’s shoulder. The guard looks surprised, then freezes. The prince draws his sword back and then drives it into the guard’s stomach. The blade rips free with a squelch, but Aziraphale doesn’t stop to consider this.

He hurries through the small ice passage opening and after Michael and Sandalphon. It’s a slim walkway with a low ceiling. He bounces off the walls as he gives chase in the dark passage. He can see the light changing as he nears where the ice was transported from ships into the palace long ago. The door is open and Aziraphale tumbles out into the dock. One of Nutter’s soldiers stands clutching their ribs. Another is fishing the third out of the water by the dock.

A caravel glides away, its sails already open to the sea wind. Sandalphon stands at the stern-looking back at him. He raises his arm over his head and opens his hand in a wave. It makes Aziraphale instantly irate.

“What ships do we have with canons?” he asks aloud. The three legionaries look to one another. Aziraphale frowns. “Of course, you’re not from—Forget it.”

He limps back up the ice passage. A stone bruise has formed on his heel and it might hurt more than his ear. The climb up the passage takes longer than his flight down. He hears the other soldiers following him into the dark walkway.

They emerge outside the throne room. Guards are strewn around in various stages of injury. Some have been bandaged and placed in irons. Aziraphale ignores this all and marches into the throne room.

The first thing he sees is the King lifting a very bandaged Beelze into a litter. Some sort of tubing runs down their arm to what appears to be a bladder of some sort. The medic from Nutter’s troop is squeezing it in smooth repetitions.

Dejected, he approaches his brother. “They’ve escaped,” he admits, wearily.

Gabriel looks up from Beelze’s face and startles. “You’re bleeding!”

Aziraphale winces and then his eyes drift over Gabriel’s shoulder. Madam Tracy, the very healer who brought him into this world, is hovering over his lover. The adrenaline that has carried him this far absolutely abandon him.

“Brother?” he hears Gabriel ask, but he cannot react. He sprints forward and falls over the step up to the dais. He lands gracelessly at Crowley’s side.

“Crowley?” his voice is barely there. He hesitates to reach out, afraid to hurt him.

Madam Tracy tuts, “Just needs some of the sea.” She produces some sort of large needle and another bladder. Aziraphale looks away when she aims for Crowley’s forearm. “Poseidon’s healing, I promise you.” He’s not sure if she’s lying to protect him or if it’s the truth.

There are so many strangers around. Aziraphale is tempted to remove his dressing gown and cover his companion. His own modesty is the only reason he pauses. Another litter arrives and Tracy orders Crowley placed on it. The prince staggers after them as they carry his consort up the stairs to the King’s chambers.

“His side is superficial,” Tracy informs him as they walk. “Absolute luck, I’d say. His shoulder is bleeding again, but it’s his back I’m the most worried about. I cannot give you a prognosis yet.”

Aziraphale cannot find any words to reply to this. He just looks ahead of him to where he can occasionally make out ginger hair curling over the edge of the litter.

“The King’s consort and your boy have lost a lot of blood.” Aziraphale just looks at her dumbly. She smiles and takes his hand. “They’ll need to be close to one another. I’ll need to be with both of them.”

“Once we get him settled, we’ll stitch up that ear.”


	15. Penché

Beelze is a child again. They stand at the barre in first position, with one graceful hand sweeping in long limbs across the handrail. Crowley is beside them, trying to stretch his legs to accommodate his overnight growth spurt.

He’s a full head shorter than all of the House’s trainees and has tiny bones. He grins at them and then parrots all their movements. Beelze glares. They just want ten minutes without someone doing exactly what they’re doing. Ten minutes of peace.

Before they can complain, their Lord enters and they both line the barre, silent. Lucifer carries a dragon-headed cane in his hand.

In the dream, Beelze feels a flicker of fear.

“The best _oiran_ dance like ballerinas,” Lucifer instructs.

Then they’re not doing ballet anymore. They’re older. They see their reflection in the barre mirror. They have breasts and wider hips. Crowley is before them, stern-faced and gangly. He holds his hands out to take them into his arms to practice some sort of ballroom dance. They step into his embrace, both of them have stiff, strong arms that keeps them from properly managing the hold. Lucifer claps out the beat and Crowley leads them into the first step. It’s sloppy. They both know it.

Lucifer slams his cane into the floor, “I will not have you disappointing the House of Acheron with your laziness. Begin again!”

Then they’re having sex for the first time. They’re on the floor of the dance studio and Crowley’s eyes are wide and frightened. He’s braced over them on his knees.

“Just relax,” they remind him as they look up at him. “It’s just me.”

“Oh for the love of the gods in heaven,” Lucifer says with exaggerated annoyance. “Just fuck. It’s not a difficult concept.”

Then the dream shifts again and Crowley is in his early twenties, his hair in a high ponytail. He’s dressed in initiation whites. He stands at the barre, staring into his own eyes. His gaze shifts to theirs.

“Any advice for the ceremony?” he asks, then turns his head to see where his temple has been shaved in anticipation of his new sigil. They know if they see his eyes they will be filled with fear.

Beelze steps up to his side. They are dressed the traditional white and pink robes of the older sibling of an initiate.

“Be true to the goddess? She’s the jealous type.” They scratch the back of their head. “Then, you know, don’t go limp dick on me when we’re on the altar.”

Crowley rolls his eyes but freezes when he sees Lucifer in the mirror’s reflection.

He clears his throat from the hall outside the dance studio. “It’s time. The carriage is waiting. Béḃinn does not allow for late arrivals.”

“Let’s do this thing,” Crowley determines and sets his shoulders. He offers Beelze his arm and they exit the studio together.

And then they’re as they are now. The studio is covered in dust. The mirrors are patinated with age. Beelze turns slowly to take in the room. Crowley stands in the doorway watching them.

“I think we’re dying,” he notes.

They take in the pair of white initiate robes they each wear. Neither of them has worn virginal white in twenty plus years.

“Yes,” they agree, “I believe we are.”

They look at themselves in the mirror. Beelze expects themselves to look bad, but instead, they look rested and at peace. They touch the underused barre and then move into first position.

“Think we could still do those lifts from when we were kids?” they ask.

Crowley smiles indulgently. “If you can’t when you’re at death’s door, then when can you?”

He holds out his hands to them, but they both freeze. There’s a blink of bright lightning around them.

And then Béḃinn stands before them.

Crowley makes a vowel-free noise and drops to his knees. Beelze cannot move nor can they look away. Béḃinn is beautiful.

She is every beam of sunlight in a raindrop.

She is every wash of the wave on the sand.

She is every child’s high-pitched giggle.

“Oh, my Lady,” Beelze blesses as they kiss their fingers and touch their sigil. Then, mesmerized, they kneel, but they cannot look away.

_My children_ , the goddess says, but her lips do not move. _The most faithful_ oirans _come from the House of Acheron._

Crowley crawls forward and touches the dance floor right before Béḃinn’s foot. He looks up at her awe.

_Will you dance with me?_

They’ve danced with each other in every way that one can. They’ve always danced for her anyway. Crowley stands and offers his hand to pull Beelze up to their feet.

Béḃinn does not move but holds out her hands to them. Beelze does not release Crowley’s grip so when they each take one of Béḃinn’s hands, they form a circle.

No one moves and Béḃinn gives a happy giggle. The air around them shimmers when she does. Then she tugs Beelze closer and kisses them on the mouth. Joy radiates into Beelze. They feel lightheaded. Béḃinn steps away from them and then pulls Crowley to her. She kisses him with the same passion. He looks drunk when she pulls away.

_Tell me what you want, faithful_ oirans. _I will give it to you._

Beelze blurts the words out before they can think further, “To carry the King’s child.”

Crowley looks at them in wonder. “A child?”

“My baby. Gabriel’s baby.”

Béḃinn looks at them with maternal adoration. _What else, my little fly?_

“Is happiness too much to ask for?”

Béḃinn laughs again like the trickle water over a falls. _After a lifetime of sadness? I should think not. I cannot stop nature but I can arrange things in your favor if you wish._

“And my child?”

_Bond the King over tea, little fly, and it will happen._ She kisses Beelze again, this time forcing her tongue into their mouth. It’s warm and sweet, like sugared tea. It’s not sexual but is passionate. When the goddess pulls away, Beelze is breathless.

Béḃinn turns to Crowley. _And you, my sweet snake?_

“Peace, my Lady. I want peace.”

Beelze’s brow furrows. Béḃinn pulls Crowley into her arms and rocks him. _Would you give up this life for endless rest? Would you leave your prince?_

“No, I love him,” Crowley declares, then looks surprised at this. “I’m tired of the pain. It never ends.”

_Here?_ Béḃinn asks dragging her fingers across the small of his back and hips. Then she shifts her hand to cover his heart. _Or do you mean here?_

He crumples in her arms and sobs like a child. She touches his long hair, then tips his head up so that she can kiss him. Beelze watches the movement of their lips and the pull of the muscles in their necks. It’s beautiful.

When they part, Crowley sinks down to the floor and lifts the hem of her robe to his lips to kiss. He prostrates himself there at her feet. Tears drip off his cheeks. Beelze darts to his side and drops to the floor too. They bend forward and lay their hands over Béḃinn’s feet.

She looks down at them as a mother watches her children. _I wonder if I might keep you both instead. My treasured fly and my precious snake here at my feet where I might coddle and kiss you whenever I wanted. You would dance for me, wouldn’t you, my pets?_

Beelze hastily jumps to their feet, ready to spin around for the goddess. Crowley remains at her feet and looks up sadly.

“You promised me an end of my pain, yet you threaten me with more, my Lady?”

Béḃinn crouches down and cups Crowley’s face in her hands. _You’re part of a pair, my beloved serpent. I will return you to him. When your time comes, though, will you come to me?_

Crowley stretches forward and kisses the goddess. “I will come with new dancing slippers and gown just to make you smile.”

Béḃinn holds out her hand to Beelze. They take it and kneel down beside the pair. _And you, my little fly? When your time comes, will you come to me?_

“I will, my loving Lady. I will linger at your feet for eternity.”

Béḃinn kisses them then. As they part, the goddess takes each companions face in one of her hands. _My pets, this is going to hurt._

And she is right.

Beelze is screaming when they come back into their body. Somewhere nearby, Crowley is not much better off. Gabriel sprawls across their chest with the deadweight of grief. At Beelze’s pain, he sits up quickly and begins to yell for help.

A bright red-haired healer rushes into the room. Beelze can’t breathe. Their body is burning from the inside out. Power and pain radiate out from their very core. It burns through the pierced hole in their stomach.

There is nothing else then. Just pure, sharp pain. It blinds. It burns.

Then it’s gone. Beelze falls back into the litter with a whine of pain. Crowley screams again, hoarse, then suddenly stops. Beelze gives a wheeze, then blacks out.


	16. With the Goddess’s Bounty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me be clear: writing sex makes me uncomfortable. So, obviously, here's another smut scene.

This night is endless. Aziraphale cannot put into words the highs and lows he has experienced.

Sheer duty propelled him to chase his brother and the warrior queen. Panic made him carry Crowley like he weighted nothing from the crypt and also had him flee to the dais to kneel at his broken side. Complete and utter devastation had brought him to his knees beside Crowley’s litter when he’d stopped breathing.

And, all-encompassing joy and hope sprung through him as Crowley screamed and clawed his way back into life.

Rain pours down outside their balcony. It makes it impossible to eavesdrop on the conversation between patient and healer. Aziraphale waits in their sitting area while Madam Tracy tends to Crowley. They carried Crowley to their room once it was apparent that danger had passed.

As they walked down the corridors, Tracy pulled and picked at the bandaged across Crowley’s back. She hummed and grumbled in disbelief, but Aziraphale only barely paid attention. Instead, he focused on holding Crowley’s hand. The companion drifted between sleep and awake, often squeezing the prince’s hand when conscious. If aware, he tells them a story about his time while dead and of meeting a goddess.

The whole thing sounds like a dream. There were childhood memories and kisses from a benevolent, but jealous deity. Aziraphale let him speak but dismissed it as the brain sorting through trauma.

Once in their chambers, Tracy chases the prince out.

“We’ll call you in. Give us a moment.” She does not stay long. She exits, looking completely lost.

“Make your brother build a temple,” she comments, faintly, the drifts out the door without a curtsy.

The prince is confused and hurries into their bedroom. Crowley sits up against the headboard and pulls his dressing gown closed around his shoulders.

“Darling, lie down!” the prince snaps. “You need to lie completely still!”

Aziraphale climbs on the bed to sit next to his consort. He’s cannot imagine the amount of pain that Crowley is in. From the shoulder wound that reopened during their run-in with Sable, to the additional stab wounds, Crowley should be bedridden for the foreseeable future. He tries to get Crowley to lie down.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he assures as he resists. “Béḃinn blessed me.”

“You also told me that you have a private smooch session with Béḃinn,” Aziraphale remarks, mockingly. He tries to get Crowley horizontal again. Crowley pushes his weight into the pillows and headboard stubbornly.

“It wasn’t private. Beelze was there too.” He looks thoughtful and adds in a sotto voice, “Actually, I think they got more kisses than me.”

Aziraphale sits at Crowley’s hip and leans his weight onto one palm. Unable to contain himself, he strokes his free hand over Crowley’s lovely hair. The curls frizz in the humidity, but Aziraphale can’t help himself: he’s still enchanted.

“I thought I’d lost you. You were dead.” Aziraphale combs through some of the strands before lifting them to his lips. He kisses them lovingly.

Crowley’s yellow eyes watch him. “We were given the choice. We could have stayed with her.”

Aziraphale pauses and looks at his lover as if he is simple. “Crowley, it was a dream.”

Crowley struggles to sit forward and the prince tries to hold him to the pillows. If he won’t lie down, at least he can hold still!The companion will do nothing of the sort. Crowley wiggles free and grabs the edge of his dressing gown. Before Aziraphale can stop him, he tugs it open.

There should be yards of cotton bandages circling his shoulder and torso. These should hide wide, angry cuts.

Instead, over unblemished, freckled skin, there is a tattoo.

The head of the black serpent begins on Crowley’s shoulder, where Dowling’s dagger struck. Its eyes stare at Aziraphale in sharp yellow. Surprised, the prince helps his consort lean forward and follows the snake’s body down Crowley’s back. It loops around the former stab wound in his side, then curls down across the small of his back. Its tail tucks around what was once Sable’s blade’s wound. All its scales are Celtic knots.

A blessing from Béḃinn, indeed.

Aziraphale just stares. His brain has gone offline and he is unable to process the information before him.

“She asked me to stay with her. I chose to come back to you, angel,” Crowley says slowly.

Aziraphale’s fingers trace the outline of the serpent’s tail in confused awe. He pulls away and cups Crowley’s chin.

“You’re here with me,” he breathes, then kisses the consort with all the despair and joy he can force into the motion. Crowley matches him, letting his own emotions roll over his tongue. Aziraphale pushes Crowley back into the headboard and follows him so that their chests are pressed together. His hand tangles in Crowley’s hair.

“Are you all right, my darling?” he asks, twisting Crowley’s hair around his fingers. As he speaks, he kisses the side of Crowley’s mouth.

“I feel like I can’t sit still. I was thinking we could go dancing,” Crowley teases.

The prince releases Crowley’s hair and strokes it back into place. As he does so, his fingers touch dried blood that has hardened into Crowley’s locks. He frowns. Aziraphale lets his fingers drift over the shell of his companion’s ear, then down his neck. All along this route, he finds flecks and stripes of rusty crimson. He stokes the unbroken skin over his shoulder blade and finds a strip of blood that brushed a bandage.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” He smiles, but it doesn’t carry the levity he means for it to convey. “But I’d like that,” he admits. “You’re a beautiful dancer.”

Crowley smirks, “It’s these serpentine hips.”

“They are something to behold,” the prince agrees. He pushes the duvet back from Crowley’s waist and unknots the silk sash of the companion’s dressing gown. Dried blood is here too. Undeterred, Aziraphale thumbs at the waistband of Crowley’s red panties. “I do wish I hadn’t seen those hips practically naked in public.”

“Especially over your mother’s dead body?” Crowley gives something between a laugh and an apology. “I need to pray to her favorite deity for a long while, I think,” he admits. “It worked, though. We won.”

Aziraphale finds this flippancy unacceptable. He moves his hand and skims across Crowley’s stomach before clutching his far hip.

“I think you misunderstand, my darling,” he admits, his voice lowering into something more suggestive. “I don’t give a shit about my mother or her gods. I just want to be the only person who sees you that bare.”

Crowley shifts as if to catch his eye, but Aziraphale moves his hand to pull Crowley up from the bed. “Come now, you foul fiend. Let’s get you washed up.”

Something has changed in the air. Crowley’s breathing quickens and Aziraphale feels the electricity in the moment. The gods must as well because thunder rumbles and the rain crashes down.

Aziraphale braces his hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades as he directs them both off the bed. It’s heavy as he drags it down Crowley’s spine and under his panties. He pushes these down to expose his freckled asscheeks.

“I’ve never seen a convalescent who wore red lacy panties,” he drolls, brushing his thumb over Crowley’s gluteal muscles. They jump under his touch.

“Been around many injured people in their knickers?” Crowley asks between short, heated breaths. The rain slows for a moment, then lightning rends the sky.

Aziraphale hums a chuckle, before pulling Crowley against his chest. He encircles the companion in his arms so that his other hand can mirror its twin. He massages the gluteus maximus with his thumbs. He digs deep into the muscle and Crowley gives a low rumbling groan.

“I can’t say I have been, but I can say that I do not want you to show this to anyone else. I want this view for myself,” he states, possessively. He stretches forward to kiss Crowley’s chin, then lines kisses along his stubble-scratch jaw. He licks at the salt there. Crowley gives a whimper.

“Is it too much to ask to keep you for myself?” Aziraphale asks, breathing hot air over the companion’s throat.

“No,” Crowley moans, brokenly. “I’ve told you before, I am yours, Aziraphale. That hasn’t changed.”

Aziraphale splays his fingers across Crowley’s buttock, holding him still, as he presses another kiss to his jawline. Thunder booms outside their balcony door and the wind suddenly changes. Rain lashes against the shutters and the gale blows the insect netting around their bed. The candle is blown out.

The prince hums. “I was enjoying the view,” he comments as if the candle is to blame.

Crowley gives an unsteady laugh. It morphs into a drawn-out groan of displeasure as Aziraphale resettles his panties up over his arse. The prince pats his cheek and tugs them toward the door to the balcony.

“I was hoping that you’d fuck me,” Crowley laments. In the dark, Aziraphale can imagine the pout that his consort is giving him.

“Crowley, my darling,” he admonishes gently, “what part of ‘we’re both covered in blood and need to get cleaned up’ do you not understand?”

The _oiran_ gives a long-suffering sigh and reaches out to clutch at Aziraphale’s dressing gown. He does not break from their embrace, so instead, the prince uses his foot to kick the shutters open. Rain splashes against his back and lightning streaks overhead. He steps backward into the storm, pulling Crowley with him.

The rain beats down on them. A bright flash illuminates Crowley’s yellow eyes and Aziraphale can see that the downpour has soaked his hair to a dark auburn.

“You’re alive,” he admits wonderingly. Crowley smiles besottedly, then focuses on the prince’s ear.

Worriedly, he stokes one hand up and thumbs rainwater across the prince’s ear and neck, wiping away blood trails. His ear throbs at the touch, but he ignores it. Once clean, Crowley’s hands travel south and pull the dressing gown off Aziraphale’s shoulders. It’s heavy with rain and falls to the balcony floor. The cold water leaves goosebumps across his back. He’s naked and shivering. Crowley shucks his own lacy panties and presses the planes of his body against Aziraphale’s. Their kisses teem with what it means to be alive and together.

Lightning shows rusty rivets of water running down Crowley’s legs and mixing with the puddles of clean rainwater. Thunder booms overhead and Aziraphale can barely hear himself think. He grabs a handful of Crowley’s wet hair and turns it so that the raindrops rinse out his blood.

Crowley’s hands rub across Aziraphale’s back and sides. He presses kisses to the prince’s cheek, temple, and hairline. They both tremble from the cold. Lightning strikes the sea behind them and the thunder is instantaneous and deafening. They both jump, then tumble back indoors.

Shooshes of rain circle their feet, but they still cling to one another. Crowley tugs them toward the bed and under the mosquito netting. He arranges Aziraphale on top of the duvet, then wraps it around him, before tucking into the prince’s chest and pulling the other side up over himself. He wiggles about until there are no open edges of their covers. Water soaks into the duvet.

Crowley brushes his fingers lightly across Aziraphale’s soft belly.

“Now will you fuck me?” he whispers hotly into the prince’s chest.

Aziraphale sucks in and shivers for a new reason. “I’d like that,” he pauses to collect himself. His voice trembles and lowers wantonly. “May I have you?”

In a smooth roll, Crowley is on his back and Aziraphale lays on his chest. The companion parts and bends his legs so that the prince is tucked between his knees. Without pause, he’s kissing Aziraphale with flicks of the tongue and nips of his teeth. The prince groans, completely spellbound by the way his consort can kiss.

Crowley sides away from him for a moment. Aziraphale shifts to lay on his side. In the dark, the drawer in the bedside table scrapes open and Aziraphale can hear the companion free something wooden. This he sets on the bed, then Aziraphale hears Crowley flick a latch open and extract something.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a touch apprehensive.

Crowley chuckles, deep and lustily. “I was going to prepare the way for you, my prince.” And he tucks one knee up to his chest and shifts his hips.

“No! Wait!” Aziraphale yelps.

“What?” Crowley asks, bewildered.

“Do you have a flint? Matches?” Aziraphale scoots out of bed, only able to see when the lightning flashes.

“Sure,” Crowley says perplexed. “Matches are on the desk.”

Aziraphale bumbles forward and pats the desktop with both hands. He feels around until he finds the box of matches and fumbles to slide them open. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, he’s fairly certain. But the thought of being unable to see Crowley as he opens himself up is too much. He wants to memorize each moment of their time together.

He strikes the match and lights the sconce by the servant’s entrance. Since he’s there, he flips the lock on the door. He drifts around the room, lighting the sconces until the room is bathed in light. Crowley follows his movements with his eyes, slow and sure. The prince locks the door to their sitting room and closes the slats on the shutters to the balcony. The rain is muted but still roars with the beating of the waves.

Finally, Aziraphale stands next to the mattress. He strikes a match and holds it to the wick of the bedside candle. Crowley captures his gaze and holds up a glass vial.

“Olive oil?” Aziraphale guesses as he flicks his wrist to extinguish the match.

Crowley chuckles. “Nah, that’s for every day. This is for special occasions.” He presses a kiss to his fingers and rubs this to his temple. Blessing complete, he unstoppers the vial and the aroma of sweet almonds fills the air. “And this is definitely a special occasion.”

“This is a ceremony for Béḃinn? Us being… um… together?” Aziraphale queries, a bit disoriented. He steps forward and pulls the mosquito netting taunt so he can better see through it. It’s like a wedding veil. It’s like the first time he saw Crowley’s eyes.

“She does love a dance. This is us dancing,” Crowley smiles. “Usually, no. But she brought me back to you. I’d like to express a little appreciation.” He tips the oil onto his palm and sets the vial aside. He rubs the oil across his fingertips and Aziraphale focuses only on the way the flickering candlelight illuminates the oil.

He follows Crowley’s hand as it drifts down. Resuming his earlier position, he tucks one knee up against his chest and adjusts his hips so that Aziraphale gets a better view. The prince balls the sheer fabric in his fists as Crowley circles his entrance with his finger. Oil drips down onto his anus and Aziraphale gulps. Crowley reaches out and clutches at Aziraphale’s hand. His fingers wrap around the prince’s fist with the netting between their hands.

“Come here, won’t you?” the consort asks. Aziraphale tugs the veiling up and dives under it and onto the bed. His cock slides across the mattress and his eyes flutter closed at the feeling. Crowley chuckles, low and hot. “Open your eyes, Your Highness or you’ll miss the show.”

As soon as Aziraphale blinks his eyes open, Crowley pushes his finger into himself and grinds back onto it. He hums with pleasure then slides out an inch, before fucking himself back down onto his hand. Aziraphale swallows slowly. Crowley adds a second finger.

“Don’t go too fast,” the prince admonishes, his voice rough.

Crowley chuckles. “Oh trust me, I’m good.” He rocks his hips back onto his hand and rolls his shoulders in satisfaction.

Aziraphale sneaks closer, inching forward until Crowley’s heel rests on his shoulder. He reaches up and guides his leg’s weight to rest there. Crowley plants his other foot on the bed and lifts his body up, rolling onto his shoulder blades. Aziraphale groans softly as the change in angle forces Crowley’s fingers deeper. He places his hand on the side of Crowley’s knee and rubs down from his own shoulder to Crowley’s hip. Once there, he latches on, letting his hand bear some of the companion’s weight.

Crowley is watching him with parted lips. He gives a ragged sigh as he works his third finger past his rim. Aziraphale breaks his gaze to look down and watch the slight tremors of muscle that clasp his fingers tightly. The prince strokes his palm up Crowley’s taunt calf muscles and over his rigid thigh that holds him up. Then, with a fleeting touch, he brushes his fingers around the winkled muscle of Crowley’s anus. He must surprise his _oiran_ , because his fingers falter in the middle of diving back into himself. His eyelashes flutter and he gives as a breathy little gasp.

Aziraphale rubs around Crowley’s perineum with his thumb, while his other fingers make a semi-circle under Crowley’s own hand. He curls his fingers up to press against the skin. The companion is panting now, open-mouthed and laboriously. The prince smiles mercifully as he moves this hand to find the vial of oil.

“I think it’s time I see to you, my dear boy. You’ve done such good work for me,” he says admiringly. Crowley freezes at these words and his eyes dilate with lust even more. Aziraphale hums in pleasure as he rubs the oil onto his cock. He strokes himself twice but feels the roll of heat beginning at his spine. He stops and focuses on his breathing.

“Angel,” Crowley croaks, trying for calm, “listen to the rain. Think of the sea. Count sheep, whatever. Do not come yet. I want you inside me when you spill your seed.”

And at this, the prince has to squeeze his tip hard to delay coming at these words. His head drops back, exposing his Adam’s apple, and he gives a shaky sigh. Crowley gives a delighted chuckle, then uses the leg that he has hooked over the prince’s shoulder to pull him forward and off-balance.

Aziraphale yelps and reaches out to brace himself, but Crowley has already caught him in his arms. His other leg encircles his back and pulls their bodies flush.

“I have been very patient, my prince,” Crowley warns, sounding like a snake about to devour its meal, “but if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to roll you over and ride you until I get what I want.”

Aziraphale drinks in the desire that pours off his consort.

“Is that so?” He shifts his knees so that he can have better leverage, then plants one palm on the mattress at Crowley’s ribcage. He reaches down and lines his cock up with Crowley’s entrance, but only brushes it with his tip. “I’m not used to being ordered around. I thought companions were supposed to give pleasure to their patrons and yield in the bedroom?”

Crowley slides his leg down from Aziraphale’s shoulder to bracket the prince’s hip, then wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and tugs him down into a hungry kiss. “Yes, but I’m not an ordinary companion, now am I? I’m _your_ consort. Your partner. Yours and no one else’s.”

The words set up a deep craving in Aziraphale and he guides himself forward. In Crowley’s eyes, he sees the moment that he breeches the ring of muscle as he rocks into him. There is no pain for the companion, just a look of sheer delight. He tugs Aziraphale down into another bruising kiss.

It’s beyond what the poets could describe. No song could do their union justice. Thunder rattles the shutters and rain accompanies their punctuated gasps as Aziraphale drives into Crowley with smooth thrusts.

“Oh my darling Crowley,” the prince pants raggedly. Crowley only laughs with pure joy before giving another groan of pleasure.

In this bright candlelight, Crowley’s wet hair is streaked with gold. His skin is no longer wet by rain, but by perspiration. Aziraphale bends forward to lick a stripe of sweat off of the companion’s collarbone. He drops a kiss to the head of the newly appeared serpent tattoo that looks at him. Then he leans back and slides his hands under Crowley’s waist and pulls him upward.

Crowley scoots forward into Aziraphale’s lap. He unwraps his legs and bends at the knee instead, making the whole transition of positions smooth and graceful. Once arranged as he wants, Crowley takes the prince into himself again. The prince runs his hands up and down his lover’s body. He rests his forehead on Crowley’s shoulders as his consort begins to move. He rolls his hips and lifts his body up, sliding up Aziraphale’s shaft. The prince gives a long, drawn-out moan, before pressing his mouth back to Crowley’s skin in an attempt to quiet himself.

That goal is lost as the companion sinks back down. His back is ramrod straight, but his hips ripple like waves.

“Crowley,” he calls in short, heated breaths. “Oh, my darling.” He lifts his head and takes in the lean torso and muscled arms that are bracketed around his shoulders. The _oiran’s_ hands stroke down his back, until Crowley’s fingers are splayed across Aziraphale’s scapulas. He balances himself with this hold as he rises up and sinks down over the prince’s erection.

Crowley’s eyes are full of joy and desire. His mouth is kiss-swollen. His cheeks smile in a combination of want and happiness that the prince has never seen another human wear. Thunder crackles, but it’s further away. Aziraphale caresses down Crowley’s sides and cups his arse. He can feel Crowley’s stretched skin and strong muscles as he rides him. One hand leaves its hold to find Crowley’s long, slender cock.

His gentle pace falters when Aziraphale takes him in hand. His skin feels like hot velvet stretched over a rod of iron. Just holding him makes Aziraphale shiver and his hips rut forward into Crowley. This draws a moan from his lover. With new determination, Crowley begins to move again and Aziraphale tries to match the glide of his hand with his pace.

“Oh,” Crowley murmurs, unsteadily. Aziraphale grins and presses his hips up as he rubs his thumb across Crowley’s slit.

Crowley’s eyes unfocus for a moment, before something sets in his jaw. “Are we going to play, my angel?” he teases and then does something with his hips that makes Aziraphale see stars.

The prince should have known better than to tempt a professional, but, really, he can’t lose either way. Crowley sets a punishing pace that makes his leg muscles pull and tighten with each movement. His abs rolls and his anus clenches. Aziraphale tries to find purchase on Crowley’s hip without losing control of stroking his lover. With each drop of his weight, though, fireworks explode inside the prince.

Crowley’s face is twisted in pleasure and he adjusts his angle only to find more. He gives a rumbling groan as he slides down this time and his fingers flex against the prince’s back. Aziraphale takes that moment to push him back onto the mattress. He pulls out, only to push Crowley’s knees up over his shoulders, then to press back in. He gives a few experimental thrusts and tries different angles. Finally, he pulls Crowley’s bottom off the bed until he sees that same blissed-out expression when he brushes his lover’s prostate. Then he gives himself permission to let go.

He drives into his lover, panting out short, hoarse gasps. Crowley claws at Aziraphale’s back. He’s sure there will be scratches later.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, between pants. Crowley does so, only to bite his lower lip when Aziraphale thrusts at the perfect angle in time with his stroke. “Do you like that?” the prince asks, eyes and voice dark with pleasure.

“Angel, can you go harder?” he asks, just a shade short of begging.

Aziraphale shuffles his weight forward and braces himself on the headboard. Then does just as his lover has asked. It’s scorching. It’s burning. Crowley is arching up under him. His ankles cross behind Aziraphale’s neck and his legs tremble as they press into his shoulders. It urges the prince forward with sharper thrusts.

“Do you need me tighter?” Crowley groans, before clenching down. It’s too much and pushes Aziraphale over the edge. He shoots off so hard that he sees white. His pace hitches, but he tries to keep rocking forward for Crowley. Beneath him, Crowley’s head is tossed back, wet hair spilling across the mattress, and he is crying out. Semen splatters up across Crowley’s chin and chest.

Then, aftershocks shake through Aziraphale’s pelvis and he gives a cry of overstimulation before he pulls out. He leans back on his heels and unfolds Crowley by lowering his legs back to the bed. Crowley is breathing slowly and deeply. His eyes are closed, but his face is completely at peace.

“Angel,” he begins, then reaches out blindly to pat some part of the prince’s body. He gets a pectoral. “I need to kiss you. Now.”

With a pleasured, but weary chuckle, Aziraphale drops onto the bed beside his consort and slides his fingers into Crowley’s hair. He combs through the damn strands before pulling his lover’s face to him. Crowley’s eyes open slowly. His bright yellow irises shine with emotion that Aziraphale hesitates to name, but feels it twist in his gut.

He leans forward and kisses Crowley slowly and tenderly. He tries to express that spirally feeling with his tongue and lips. Crowley gives a content hum and wraps an arm around the prince. When he breaks away, he still has that look in his eye.

“I’ll get a flannel, shall I?” he asks as he slides off the bed and heads for the ensuite. When he returns with pitcher, basin, and cloth, the seed that splashed across his skin is gone. Aziraphale is a little disappointed. He wanted to wipe it away himself.

As Crowley pours warm water into the basin, the prince listens to the tapering rain outside. Crowley pulls the insect netting aside and begins to wash the prince’s groin. It’s not mechanical or medical in nature. It’s tender. It’s apparent in the way that Crowley attends to his chest and arms.

The words bubble out of the prince unbidden. “Crowley, I love you.” Aziraphale sputters after they escape him.

Crowley has his left arm in his hold and the flannel on his bicep, but he stops. His eyes flash and then he breaks into a giant smile. His whole face lights up.

“Angel, you have terrible taste. But I love you too. So much.”

And Aziraphale’s heart flutters. Crowley chuckles, in the deep, but joyful way of his and he continues his aftercare administrations. This has been an endless night of highs and lows. As they blow out the candles and curl together, the prince cannot help but run his hands over the areas where there had been broken skin but was no longer. 

"I'm here, Aziraphale. I'm yours and I'm here," Crowley confirms in the darkness. The rain slows to a sprinkle, then dies away. Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley's temple sigil and holds him tightly to his chest as he drifts to sleep. 


	17. Exordium

Parchment and maps sprawl across the lid of the pianoforte. Gabriel lifts one page only to set it down again. His agenda for the day is so long that he’s not sure how to get started. It doesn't help that there is a timeline: all work must be complete before sundown that night. Official mourning begins for his mother then. Beelze opens the bedchamber door and his decision is made for him.

Gabriel abandons his work and hurries to their side. He wraps an arm around their waist and tugs them close. Beelze gives a dramatic sigh and pats his chest.

“I’m fine,” they repeat for the hundredth or so time. He offers no reply, just holds them close before pulling up their robe and tunic to expose the divinely-inked tattoo. It marks the place where Sable’s blade stuck into them. There is a Celtic knot that resembles a flying insect. Beelze swears its a fly, but Gabriel thinks it looks more like a bumblebee. He brushes his fingertips across it reverently.

“Gabe,” Beelze says, sternly, “look at me. I am okay.”

He can’t tear his gaze from the tattoo. “You were dead.”

“And I’m fine now. Look at me, Gabriel.”

He looks up slowly, unable to focus on anything but how their chest expands with their breathing. Beelze takes his chin in hand and forces him to look them in the face. There is something annoyed, but gentle in their gaze.

“Gabriel. Love, you’re allowed to be a mess right now. Hell knows I’m impressed that you’ve got it together this well, but you’ve got to move past this. I’m not leaving you. I’m okay.”

The King tugs them into his full embrace. He lifts them up from the floor and drops onto the chaise with them in his lap. Beelze sighs and knits their fingers together.

“Reports came in this morning,” he begins, then sighs and starts again. “The ship that Sandalphon and Michael took ran aground in the storm. The navy can find no survivors. They’re bringing the bodies here for identification.”

Beelze shivers. “Béḃinn promised us that she would bend things to our luck. I didn’t think it would include—“

“Forget that,” he commands, softly, but sternly. “You’re here. You’re okay, that’s all I care about.” He hugs them to him, then loosens his grip again. “What are we going to do with Uriel?”

“Shuffle her off to a convent?”

“Too risky. Someone from her nation may come to collect her and begin a rebellion with her as the ‘rightful heir’.”

Beelze hums understandingly. “You don’t want to kill her? She earned it.” They can’t help how angrily these words come out. She tried to kill them and kept them from their love for years. Gabriel doesn't hold this against them. He's angry too.

Gabriel looks down at their joined hands and rubs his thumb over the back of their hand. “I cannot stand another death in my name this week.”

“Imprison her then. Somewhere nasty.”

Gabriel snorts. “Where would you suggest?”

Beelze looks over at the giant map that spills over the piano lid. “Far from her native land, for certain. Perhaps one of the South’s islands?”

The King considers this. It might work. “I’ll think about it. It’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.” He kisses the back of their hand. They sit, cuddled together as the morning brightens. Sea birds call. Beelze shifts in his arms.

“I think we should go swimming,” they decide.

Gabriel rests his chin on top of their head. “Yeah? In the sea?”

Beelze kisses his hand. “Yeah, nice and cold after all that rain. What do you say?”

He lets go of them, so they rise and hold out their hands to him. Together, they exit their rooms and descend toward the courtyard with access to the beach. It’s a quiet walk this early in the day. Servants are busy below stairs and no guards remain. Too many were disloyal, so Gabriel reposted them all to the West as legionaries. Aziraphale’s chosen soldiers will replace them. For now, that is only a single troop led by his new Head of Palace Security, Agnes Nutter.

These are posted around the castle, but none see them. They slip out the gate and kick off their sandals as they meet the cold sand. The morning clouds are small and distant, but the day promises to be hot. Gabriel marches down to the shore and pulls off his robe. He tosses it down onto the sand and looks back at Beelze. They are looking in the distance, watching the waves dance in the early morning sun. The light makes their hair blue-black and their smile peaceful. He watches them and memorizes this morning.

Then he tugs off his tunic, then steps out of his breeches and underwear. He shivers in the cool morning air but grins when Beelze sees him. A flash of open hunger dances across their face and they untie the sash to their robe before dropping it into the pile of clothing. Their breeches and tunic follow, leaving them standing there in the traditional red lace panties of the courtesan and a matching bra. His eyes lock on the new tattoo, but Beelze isn't having sorrow this morning. They cock their hip at him and then do a slow, graceful pirouette in the sand. 

The panties are a thong. Gabriel licks his lips. As Beelze completes their turn, they remove their bra and give it a toss before sauntering closer.

“Forgive me, Sire,” they simper, all wide faux-innocent eyes and playful pout, “I was mortally wounded yesterday and can’t seem to bend over and take these off. Might you assist me?”

Gabriel gives an incredulous snort, then grabs them into his arms, lifts them up, and throws them into the ocean. Beelze gives a shrill shout before they go under the waves. The King laughs and runs into the water after them. He dives under the next wave that splashes up. The water is so cold it takes his breath away. He surfaces and stands in the waist-high water with a gasp. Beelze immediately tries to climb onto his back to get out.

“It’s freezing!” they declare, shivering.

“This was your idea!” Gabriel shouts, giving a shiver of his own.

“You’re supposed to have common sense and talk me out of stupid ideas like this,” they grumble, then wrap their legs around his waist and hang onto his shoulders. They hook their chin over his shoulder and look out to sea with him. Gabriel gets a devilish grin and drops forward. Beelze yells again and they both dunk under the waves.

When they surface, sputtering, Gabriel grabs their hand and tugs them further into the deeper water. “Let’s jump the waves.”

They give a delighted smirk, splash him, and then dive under the water to swim away. He wipes salt water from his face and makes an aborted attempt to grab their ankle as they swim out of reach. He’s still taller than the depth of the water, so he simply walks after them. He pants out as the cold water reaches his nipples, but soldiers on to the area where Beelze is treading water.The waves lap at his chin.

“Bee,” he says with affection, “I love you.”

They turn in the water with smooth kicks and strokes. “I love you too.”

Then he dunks them and swims away. He hears them come up spitting and cursing, but he only gives a manic giggle and keeps swimming. He glances back to where they were and takes a freezing wave of water to the face. When he comes up from the churning wave, Beelze is the one laughing this time.

It’s juvenile and delightful. Beelze joins him then. They kiss his lips with such joy that he thinks he might break. He wraps his arms around them and tugs them into shallow water. They lean into his embrace and let him pull them toward shore.

“Thank you,” Beelze says, reaching out of the water to stroke back his hair. “I needed some time to just be with you.”

He leans into the touch, before kissing them deeply. “I think I’d like to take you inside and make love to you if you’re amendable?”

Beelze shakes their head. “Only if you stop talking like that. I’m not a business contract.”

Gabriel quarks his eyebrow. “So, you’d rather do it here on the beach?”

Beelze’s hand drops beneath the waterline and comes back with their thong in hand. “There might be sand in unfortunate places, but I’m willing.”

Gabriel’s brain shorts out for a moment. He hadn’t meant for them to accept. He reaches down to check—oh, yeah, the cold water was not doing him any favors. Beelze’s eyes are sparkling with delight. They seem to know exactly the problem. Their hand clasps his as it surrounds his drawn up cock and balls. Only, instead of inspecting, they stroke him.

“Hmm, my beloved King?” they simper again, using the same false innocence. “I think you don’t find me attractive, perhaps I can try and change your mind?” He is the one sputtering now.

Then Beelze takes his hands in theirs and leads him out of the waves. Salt lingers on his skin, but it’s joined by sand as Beelze pushes him down onto the beach. They step over him and straddle his hips. They drop their sodden thong onto the sand and then brace their elbows on his abs. They rest their head on their palms.

“So maybe we need to warm you up?” they ask.

“The bedroom is warm,” he suggests, knowing that they’ve already made up their mind. They’re just toying with him. Whether he’d really meant it to begin with or not, they’re having sex on the beach now. Beelze has decided. It’s such a thrill to let them guide this. Of all the things he is in charge of, they have always run his heart. It should frighten him, but instead, it’s relieving.

Beelze sits back onto the tops of his thighs and cups their breasts in their hands. They’re not large busted. After the cold swim, their breasts are drawn tight with hard, peaked nipples. Beelze traces the seawater with their fingers across their areolas. Each movement mirrors the opposite hand. They pinch their nipples and roll them between their thumbs and forefingers. Then, they rub their hands down their stomach and cup themself.

Gabriel isn’t cold anymore. His groin is slowly waking up, but his attention isn’t on how long it’s taking for him to achieve an erection, it’s on how Beelze is rubbing their fingers along their labia. When they see his gaze, they shift their knees wider and tilt their hips toward his chin. Gabriel sits up by bracing his upper body on his elbows. He licks his lips.

Beelze traces a finger along their lips, before dipping in and pulling it back wet with themselves and seawater. They scoop this onto their finger and drag it back up to their clit. They use one hand to pull their mound open and up so that the King has a better view. With two of these fingers, they pull their hood taunt. Then they circle their clit with their wet finger. They give a pleased shift, before adjusting their hold on themself. They let the skin slacken, but then begin to brush infinity symbols across their clit.

Gabriel scoots down. The sand is rough and cuts into his buttock and back, but he needs to be closer to them right then. He lays flat on the beach and guides Beelze up to sit on his chest. They hesitate and look down at him with sleepy eyes. Their fingers dance across his tattoo of their joined sigils. He smiles and strokes their inner lips. They buck at his touch but ease back onto his chest with his next caress. He slides one finger inside them as far as he can at this angle, then curls it. He rubs all long their wall until their breath hitches. There it is, he thinks and matches the speed and pattern they are rubbing onto their clit.

Their eyes slide shut and their breath is quick and shallow. They aren’t close, not yet, but they’re enjoying every touch.

“Sit on my face,” he commands, as he pulls his finger free. They give another hard rub to their clit and then gasp. “C’mon, Bee, sweetheart. Up here. Let me make you feel good.”

They glare at him. “Where did you learn to talk like that? A common whorehouse?” Beelze crawls forward on their knees until they’re over top the King’s mouth. He reaches up for their hips and guides them down to where he wants them.

When he was a boy, his father told him that pleasing a partner was not something a king needed to worry about. The first time he took Beelze to bed and make them honestly gasp (not that fake thing that some companions did to give their patron’s an ego boost), he realized his father was full of shit. It wasn’t long after that when he learned how to please Beelze every time.

He dips into their labia with the tip of his tongue. He traces all along their lips before focusing on their clit. Gabriel holds them in place with one hand and presses inside them with two fingers from the other. Beelze bucks and trembles above him. He brushes his nose into their curls and then sucks on their clit until they cry out. He brings his knees up and settles more comfortably to lick and suck at them. He could spend his day here between their thighs. He laves at Beelze’s clit until he can feel tiny tremors that match their panting little gasps.

And then they’re coming, slicking up his chin and rocking against his mouth. Gabriel opens his eyes to see how Beelze bends forward to ride out their climax. He sucks their clit in between his lips and then grazes it with his bottom teeth. They buck immediately and keen out, high-pitched and breathy.

He redoubles his efforts and rocks his fingers into their newly wet slick and begins to lick and suck anew.

“Gabriel,” Beelze pants, “Oh, oh, Gabriel.”

The King knows that they want him to pause and let them become less sensitive. But if he just curls his fingers, which he does, and presses and rubs while he sucks… Beelze grinds down into his mouth, rubbing against his tongue as they cry out. He hums against their mound and Beelze shutters.

“Gabe, Gabe, enough!” And they rise off his mouth, even as the King follows them up.

They’re pink-cheeked and leaking wet. Gabriel sweeps his tongue over his lips and collects their taste. It mixes with the briny sea and makes him hum in satisfaction.

Beelze’s breast is heaving, but they suddenly look delighted and then slide down to sit on his dick. He was not expecting this at all and rolls up to sitting.

“Bee,” he moans as he flips them over onto their back. Sand is everywhere, but he ignores it all. He sinks into them deep and stays there with his arms braced around their head. He leans down and kisses them, letting them taste themselves on his tongue. Beelze groans in pleasure and then sucks on his tongue.

The sun shines on his back as he fucks them. An errant wave laps at their tangled feet and it makes both them shriek in surprise. Their lovemaking is full of laughter and kisses. When Gabriel comes, it’s a slow-building thing. He’s in no rush to finish; it’s nearly a surprise when he climaxes. They lay there on the sand, arms and legs all knotted together. They kiss and whisper nonsense against each other’s skin. It’s perfect.

When their passion cools and the sea breeze becomes too chilly, they dress as best they can with wet, sandy bodies, then tumble hand-in-hand back into the palace like a pair of lovesick, foolish teenagers.

Of course, as they barge into their own sitting room, they’re met by every one of the kingdom’s advisors.

They both freeze and take in their guests. Each of the advisors has a very different expression: some amused, some irritated, and others outraged. They each give a sweeping bow. In the back corner, Aziraphale and Crowley share a knowing look between each other, before each bowing respectfully. Beelze sticks their tongue out at their brother.

“Forgive us, please, if you would,” Gabriel begins, “we need a moment to get cleaned up. Brother, will you attend us? Crowley, you too.” And they slip into their study.

Crowley looks surprised to be included, but saunters into their study like he owns the place. He stops short when he sees the area before the fireplace and Gabriel curses himself for a hundred kinds of a fool. Aziraphale pulls the door to the study closes and loops his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“Do you need to leave, beloved?” he asks into his consort’s neck. The rug has been removed and the ink and blood are gone, but the pain is still there for the victim.

“No,” Crowley argues, “I’ve got this. I’m just, not, I mean—stay with me?” he asks quieter.

Beelze watches them for a moment before tugging Gabriel by the hand into their bedchamber. Crowley is cared for, so they can look after the King. They don’t have time to get properly bathed, but they do their best with a quick rinse off. Gabriel dunks his head into the cistern to Beelze’s outright laughter. He grins and wraps his head in a towel.

He dresses quickly and Beelze only tries to put their hands down his pants twice, which is nearly a record. They’re in a clean breeches. Their robe hangs open so that their lacy black bra is on display. They tie their robe for this view and saunter out into their private study.

Crowley is at the pianoforte playing something romantic. Aziraphale leans against the instrument, watching Crowley. Gabriel pauses as Crowley looks up and the two of them seem to forget the world. He wonders if he looks as stupidly in love when he looks at his Bee. They’re at his side and they lean against him. He loops his arm around their waist.

“Quit mooning over each other, you losers,” Beelze grumble and shocks the other two out of their moment. Crowley’s fingers fall onto discordant notes. Beelze laughs loudly and Gabriel turns to face them and soak up their joy.

“Right, we have business to attend to,” the King announces, before standing up straight. “Brother, you and I must go out there,” he makes a face at the idea of meeting with all those advisors, “and deal with the map of the new kingdom and our mother’s funeral.”

Aziraphale gives a slight bow in acceptance which makes Gabriel crazy. He holds up his palm to stay him. “No more of that when it’s just us.”

Aziraphale seems surprised, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“My kingdom, my rules. This is already going to be hard enough. I'm not sure I can handle another advisor bullshitting me. I know I can trust you, but you need to know that we are near equals." Aziraphale begins to protest again, but Gabriel cuts him off. "Now, I need some help from Crowley here, on a personal matter.”

Crowley turns on the bench and slouches against the keyboard. “How may I assist you, Sire?”

“I’d like you to help Bee set up our Pledge tea for tonight.”

Beelze grabs him by the lapels, jumps into his arms with their legs wrapped around his waist, and kisses him hard on the mouth. Crowley laughs with delight and Aziraphale claps.

“You really mean it?” Beelze asks between peppering his face with kisses.

“Of course I do.”

“And the Unity Cord?”

“Yes, can Crowley paint?”

“Not as well as I can,” Beelze admits.

“Hey! I’m passable!” Crowley argues.

“And, if this meeting goes well,” Gabriel slides one arm under Beelze’s bottom and the other across their back. He shifts his weight like they’re slow dancing. “I should have my mother’s edicts about the _oiran_ undone today.”

Crowley and Beelze both blanch and the King wonders if he’s done the right thing. “Is that wrong? Do you—“

But he has to stop talking because Beelze is kissing him again. Their tongue dives into his mouth and their hands into his hair.

“We can marry in a temple?” Crowley asks and there’s an element of astonishment in his voice.

Beelze breaks their kiss only to search Gabriel’s face for his answer. “I’d hunt down the stars for you, sweetheart,” he admits to them. Beelze just stares, then kisses him again, sweeter but no less desperate.

Next to the pianoforte, Aziraphale is speaking to Crowley in a very similar manner, “You’d want that?”

“To marry you properly? Now that you know me and love me? You know, for someone so clever, you’re also an idiot.” Then Crowley grabs the prince’s hand and holds it between his own. “I love you. Of course I would like to marry you. I mean, ugh, only if you, you know, er, maybe you’re not the marrying type—but that’s okay! I am totally—“

“I’d like to ask you, if you’d let me,” Aziraphale interrupts, amused. “When we’re ready. Someday though, I’d like to propose properly.”

Crowley beams, then pouts, “Maybe I want to be the one who proposes.”

Aziraphale lifts their joined hands and kisses Crowley’s fingers.

Beelze hides their face in Gabriel’s neck and holds him tight with their arms and legs. He doesn’t even really need to keep them up, as they’ve got a stranglehold on his torso.

An advisor knocks on the door. “Your Majesty?”

Gabriel sighs and rubs his hands up under Beelze’s robe and across their back. He finds sand there and chuckles into their hair. “Duty calls.”

“Gabe,” they stop him, “what about your marriage to Uriel?”

“Still working on that, Bee,” he admits. “I’ve requested it be annulled.”

Beelze sucks in a breath and then kisses him before detaching from him. “Go see to your advisors. No doubt they’ll all volunteer to go run Michael’s country.”

The King nods, “Undoubtedly.”

He looks over to the piano. Crowley stands and gives a small bow to the King. Then he kisses Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I think we’re going to go shopping,” Beelze comments, looking at Crowley.

“We are?” he asks, clearly because this is news to him.

“Yes, dumb ass, I just said we are. Neither of us packed clothes appropriate for a funeral. And I want to celebrate. Maybe I need something fancy for after my Unity Cords come off.”

“What, like a rubber ball gag so you shut up?”

Gabriel looks at Aziraphale and finds a similar expression reflected back at him. He adores Beelze, but heavens can they be annoyingly childish. Apparently, Aziraphale finds Crowley similar. They open the door to face the advisors as their consorts bicker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story, I knew that Beelze needed to have the same blessing tattoo as Crowley... but I didn't want them stuck with another fly on their body, so maybe it's a fly, maybe it's a bumblebee? Insect in the eye of the beholder, I guess.


	18. Arrangements and Ordinances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has given me fits and starts. Forgive the delay!
> 
> Some quick notes: the "traditional companion uniform" is based on Crowley's outfit from the Crucifixion in the show. The costume designer for the show referred to the tunic as an "abaya", so that's the term we're going with. 
> 
> As for the chalk that the companions wear, this is not the paint that traditional oiran wear in Japan. I was thinking closer to children's face paint meets make up.

A companion’s life is limited by the rules of their society and of their respective House. They enter training as a helper to their older siblings when they are very young. This training includes general education, but also instruction in dance, music, languages, food preparation, fencing and dueling, swimming, and art. An _oiran_ is refined and elegant. Conversation is their weapon and instrument to use as they need, be it to cut or to cultivate.

They become initiates in their late teens and early twenties. They are dedicated to their goddess. From that moment on, their life’s decisions are irrevocably bound to the rules of their station. Even simple errands have a protocol.

For example, Beelze and Crowley want to go to the market. They cannot simply rush out into the streets. First, they must seek permission from their patrons. This is Beelze’s first hurdle.

Usually, there would be no concern from the King about his consort going into public. However, this is no usual week. From the multiple deaths of the royal family to their impending mourning period, to sabotage and plots for the throne, to the concern of possible continued war, Gabriel is a more than a might concerned about their departure from the palace. This list is, of course, does not even cover the main source of his hesitation.

“Bee,” he says looking at them like they may break, “I need you here. I can’t lose you again.”

Beelze pulls a series of dramatic, but frustrated expressions before rubbing their hand over their face. “I cannot go to the Queen’s funeral in the clothing I have, honey, and our mourning period begins at sundown. I need to get this done quickly.”

He seems to be in complete agreement so they think they’ve won. “Of course and I appreciate how you’re thought about this. It’s such a thoughtful and respectful gesture.”

“Great, so Crowley and I will go—“

“No.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll call for the tailor. They’ll be here within the hour—“

“It’s not just the outfits, Gabe. I need out. I feel like I’m going to buzz out of my skin.”

He stands from his desk and rests his hands on their shoulders. His smile is so delicate and sweet. At this exact moment, it’s really annoying.

“It’s just the adrenaline from your,” his voice drifts off and his eyes unfocus, nearly panicking, before coming back to them, “experience. I have a meeting shortly, but then maybe we could go play tennis?”

Beelze rolls their lips inside their mouth and bites them. They are not going to get angry at him. He’s hurting and he’s pulled in a million stressful directions. He’s just being overly protective.

“I’d like that, after I go to the market, maybe? Shall we say two?”

He shakes his head and smiles at them like they’re being foolish and they should know better. “There is nothing in that market that—“

“Gabriel, I will not be a prisoner in this castle. Your mother did not know her people and she refused to interact with them. I will not become the same,” they state, determinedly.

Their words hit their mark. He reels back by rocking on his heels and then retreats to his desk. He sits down rigidly and begins to organize his papers. They shuffle from one stack to the next. He lifts them and taps them on the desk.

“I did not know that I was holding you prisoner. I thought we were a couple. I thought we were partners?” he asks with deliberate calmness. He is itching for a fight and they know it. Beelze closes their eyes and breathes through their nose.

“Yes, honey, of course, we are. And, no, you’re not holding me prisoner, obviously you’re not.” They take another steadying breath and walk over to his side. They lean on his desk and tilt down so that they may see his eyes. Gabriel sits with perfect posture, but he’s stiff with irritation. “But you’re also being a touch too worried about my wellbeing. I just want to go shopping, Gabe, not lead an assault on a fort. I know it’s petty in light of everything, but I think it would help.”

He continues to avoid their eyes.

“Are we really rowing about this?” Beelze asks as they reach out to touch his cheek.

The King sits back to avoid their touch and rubs his top lip in annoyance. Beelze raises both brows—oh, it’s on now, apparently. He taps his knuckles on his desk. “We’re limited on staff at the moment. Who am I going to send as your chaperone?”

Beelze makes a hiss of annoyance. “I’m a companion! We don’t need chaperones once we’re _oirans_.”

“Yes,” he says with a sinister smile, “when you were simply that, sure. But you’re the King’s consort now, _sweetheart._ You’ll need protection.”

Beelze hates when they fight, of course, but in moments like this, they just want to win. Gabriel becomes so condescending and nothing ticks them off faster than when people talk down to them.

“I’m going with Crowley. We’ll each take a blade.”

“Oh, yes. because that’s worked _so_ _well_ in the past few days. Or did you forget the hours you spent bleeding out—“

“You know what? Fine. Whatever. I’ll wear something else. Enjoy your meeting,” and they slam out of their private study, through their receiving room, and down through the main seating area of the court. Courtesans all rise and bow as they hurry through. A few try to follow them, but Beelze glares until they return to their seats.

It’s not a long walk to Crowley’s chambers when they are walking this fast. They weren’t lying about how energy is flitting under their skin. The swim that morning (and the sex) helped burn through some of it, but it’s back full force. They burst into Aziraphale and Crowley’s chambers without knocking.

The prince turns suddenly to look at them and, in the same moment, has hold of his saber. It’s pointed at them. Perhaps not the best time for such a dramatic entrance.

“Er, sorry,” they mutter, “I’m here for Crowley. Market. Shopping. You know.”

Aziraphale nods and lowers his weapon. He rests it on the table before him and gives a physical shutter to release the tightness in his shoulder muscles. He fingers the tattered piece of black silk that is tied to the handle.

“He’s out there,” the prince directs and waves to the balcony. The moment is apparently forgotten, for he gives a welcoming smile.

“Thanks,” Beelze replies with a half-aborted bow.Aziraphale wiggles and returns to cleaning his blade.

The balcony, they find, is lined with pieces of a sketchbook. Each page has been cut free of its binding then laid out on the tile work. The edges are held in place by rocks and plant pots. Crowley himself is sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with the book and a blade. The lovely black leather sketchpad seems to have been drowned. It’s warped and wrinkled.

Crowley glances up at them and his sunglasses flash. He salutes them with his knife before flipping pages. Beelze leans over to see that his art has also warped from water. Flowers and leaves decorate the pages, along with the occasional portrait or landscape. The charcoal is softer and smudged, but still clear.

“Forgot it in the rain,” he admits, as he slices these drawings free.

“That’s not like you,” they note and hold out their hands for these pages. They find the pile of collected rocks and use them to pin the new drawings to the ground to dry in the sun.

“I was busy,” he admits. Beelze is out of sorts, otherwise they'd take the opening to make a joke about the pleasures of being a companion. “Being stabbed delays the joys of art.” Crowley continues.

“Sure,” Beelze replies, before stretching out for the next few pages. They’re silent then. The waves roll in. Crowley’s blade makes clean cuts. The rocks click on the tile. Inside, Aziraphale closes a metal polish tin.

“You going to tell me what’s wrong?” Crowley finally asks. His tone is detached, but his interest shows the opposite.

“Nope. Mind your goddamn business.”

Crowley says nothing in reply, not even an interested or derivative noise or squawk. This makes Beelze stop and face him.

“What?” they snap.

Crowley’s eyebrow arches over his glasses and his mouth presses into an “o” before morphing into a grimace, then a bland smile. “Minding my business, mate, my bad.”

Beelze snarls and glares then snatches the last batch of drawings that need to be dried.

“You need more practice at it,” they snipe and stand.

The second rule of the _oiran_ society that Beelze needs to follow is to dress to their part and station. That included party wear or bathing suits if the event called for such. For something simple like going shopping, they had to wear their uniform: a black linen tunic with bell sleeves.

“I need to borrow an outfit,” they finally admit.

Crowley lead them into his bedchamber and opens his bureau for them before motioning for them to rummage away. They stalk by him, still angry and directing at him as he was an easy target. They dig around until they find a pair of his traditional companion abayas. They’re long and black tunics with little adornment. It will certainly show that they’re from the South, but what does that matter? They throw one at him before selecting the shorter one for themselves.

Crowley strips out of his current outfit and dons the abaya. It has billowing sleeves, which he ties around his forearms before securing the sash. Beelze yanks their robe and breeches off before struggling into the mass of fabric.

“Why are you so damn tall?” they grumble. Crowley steps over to them and helps pull the garment down. It hangs like a dress on them. He steps around them to find the traditional headscarves that they need to finish the look. He tosses these to Beelze before finding a belt to help shorten the length of the tunic.

Beelze settles the veiling onto their shoulder and then twists it around their head to cover their hair. Simultaneously, Crowley rolls the tunic into the belt. He pushes their sandals toward them to step into.

“Get dressed, idiot,” they say in annoyance. “Where’s your chalk?”

He wraps the headscarf over his hair and tosses the end over his shoulder. “Ugh, maybe check my trunk. I haven’t needed it.”

They make a sound of annoyance. “You’re bonded. You should wear chalk all the time, dumb ass.”

He makes some sort of rumble about stupid rules and how the chalk itched as they dig to find the face chalk. Beelze enters his ensuite and studies themself in the mirror. They look like a shadow—dark hair hidden under a dark veil. The wraithlike companion’s tunic and shawl completes the look. It’s black on black on black. They open Crowley’s box of chalk and contemplate the colors available.

The little pots contain crushed shimmering powders, not unlike makeup. When mixed with a drop of oil, however, they become paint to show their station. Rule three, as it were: mark yourself for protection.

Crowley joins them at the mirror, drops his sunglasses onto the counter, and tips a drop of olive oil into the silver-white chalk. Beelze claims the small brush that accompanies this color and daps some chalk onto it. Then they lean forward into the mirror and paint a stripe of white chalk across their forehead in an arch from their sigil the middle of their forehead. They repeat this from this stopping point to their opposite temple. They hand this brush to Crowley and he does the same strokes.

This color is the base for all _oirans_. They’re ordained, this white shimmering silver says. It’s their tiara, only to be embellished when they’re bound to a single patron—or, luckily in both their cases, a partner. (Even if their partner is being an overly-worried and catty son of a bitch.)

Now, Beelze considers their other options. They select the purple of the King’s eyes and drip in some oil. Using this they paint three teardrops, one large one centered between their brows and two smaller to offset this one. It’s symmetry. They’ve not seen this sort of look on their face in two years. Something in them relaxes.

They select another brush and paint on some winding swirls and splashes of color around their main arches. Pleased, they add a dot of black to the corner of each of their eyes. They look over to Crowley, expecting him to be finished also, but he is frozen. He holds a new, clean brush, but stares inert into the ten or so colored pots.

“What if I’m wrong?” he asks.

They roll their eyes. “Then choose a different color next time. Aziraphale isn’t going to care. Pick one that means something to you and paint, idiot.”

Crowley moves slowly to pour the oil into the bright blue, daps his brush, and then stares into the mirror.

“I’ve never thought about what I would paint,” he admits.

Beelze remembers this moment of panic years ago. “I have three or four looks, this one is just easy.” But that’s not only it. This one seems to match their mood.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls and joins them in the doorway. “Oh, Beelze, you look lovely.” Then he looks at Crowley in the mirror. “What have you chosen, dear boy?”

Another look of panic flits across Crowley’s face. Aziraphale steps up behind him and places his hand in the small of the companion’s back.

“Beelze has one with flowers that always made them look ready for a garden party.” He looks closely at Beelze’s faux jewels. “Not really feeling ready for a party then?” he asks, astutely.

Beelze glares at him then turns the same look on Crowley, “See, there. Paint flowers.”

Crowley has already set to work, but not on flowers. He paints from the edge of his temple to the center of his brow in thin, blue scrollwork. This he repeats on the other side, before lining each curl with a line of delicate black dots. He switches brushes for the gold that Aziraphale always seems to wear. This he feathers down in five strokes, wide to narrow, like a sunburst on his brow. He adds a few other gold strokes here and there, but then drops the brush into the basin with the others. He faces the other two and awaits their judgment.

Beelze studies it. “You’re missing something,” then they dig the blue brush back out. Under the sunburst they paint a perfect circle. It provides the finished symmetry that he needs.

Aziraphale is enraptured. “Do you need to dry?” he asks, tentatively.

“Don’t touch it yet,” Beelze warns, but the prince is already cupping Crowley’s chin and kissing him. Beelze throws the brush into the basin and storms out of the ensuite.

They dig around in Crowley’s belongings. Nothing will suit for carrying items in the market.

“What do you need, my dear?” Aziraphale asks from behind them. They jump.

“A bag for the market,” they admit, frustrated.

The prince hums, “Would a basket do?” Without awaiting an answer he hurries away to find whatever he seeks. Crowley glides out of the bath, high on kisses. He finds his sandals and ties them onto his feet while singing under his breath.

“Is he coming with us?” they ask annoyed.

“What?” Crowley replies, lost. “Oh, Aziraphale? Nah. He’s got a… meeting? Or an appointment? Something like that. With a device. Saw it in his diary.”

The prince reenters holding a sturdy, handled basket. “Yes, I do indeed,” he agrees, missing Crowley’s blunder, “A. Device is Captain Anathema Device, in fact. We’ve served together and I trust her. I’ve asked her to bring her troops here as guards during the coming rites.”

He holds the basket out to Beelze, “Will this do for your shopping?”

They hesitate. “You think that we need security for the funeral?”

Aziraphale dithers over his answer and clutches the basket to him again. “Call it an old soldier’s premonition or what have you, but, yes, I think so. Certainly for the coronation.”

Beelze toes the floor with their sandal and stares at the basket in the prince’s hands. “And to attend the market? Would you like us to take a guard?” It physically hurts to ask, but Aziraphale is not opposed to them going out anywhere and is willing to help, so they have a bit of forgiveness for him. If he is really worried about their safety, then maybe there is something to it.

He hesitates, then looks at Crowley. “Would you like an escort or a guard?”

Crowley reaches out and claims the basket. “If you think we need one?” he asks, his words trailing off. “I’ve never been here before. The capital, I mean. Well, I have, of course, but not out and around.”

“It’s not unsafe,” Aziraphale reassures him. “If you would care for one, I shall get someone.”

“We’ll be fine. I just wanted to ensure that you were all right with us going out without an escort,” Beelze lies.

Aziraphale looks thoughtful, then slips his signet ring off and slides it onto Crowley’s finger. Crowley pales.

“Angel?” he begins.

Aziraphale waves his hand, “It’s probably unnecessary. But sometimes, a little wave of the right crest opens doors. I’ll feel better if you have it on you outside the palace. Oh! We should get you a sash made!” The prince visibly brightens, then kisses Crowley’s cheek and presses something into his hand. Crowley glances down and then tries to return whatever is there.

“I have money, angel,” he grumbles and shoves the purse back at the prince.

“Of course you do, dear boy, but I’m allowed to want to treat you, am I not?” He gives a winning smile and hurries away before Crowley can successfully transfer the purse back to him. “Bring back blue sealing wax, won’t you, darling?”

Crowley huffs at his back then opens the purse. He gapes at whatever is inside. He looks up at his sibling with clear disbelief.

“I’m not sure what he thought we were going to buy. Perhaps a house?”

Beelze rolls their eyes. “Garments are going to cost a pretty penny, especially at the last minute.”

Crowley goes to his wardrobe and trades some of Aziraphale’s coinage into his own purse. This he ties onto his sash.

“I didn’t bring mine,” Beelze admits. Crowley pulls his sunglasses down to look at them in annoyance. Then, he unties the purse, adds more of Aziraphale’s money to it and reties it. He settles the basket on his arm and leads them out.

“We’re off!” Crowley calls into Aziraphale’s study and bedchamber. The prince is lounging in a chair with his reading spectacles perched on his nose and a map of the palace dangling from his hands.

“Enjoy yourselves. Keep a weather eye out, please.”

Crowley hesitates. With a determined stride, he hurries into the room and pushes his veil down to his neck. He leans down and kisses Aziraphale wildly, then stands back to his full height and resettles his headscarf.

Aziraphale watches his retreat with a slightly dizzy expression. Beelze chuckles and opens the door to the courtyard. It’s not hard to exit the palace from this side of the castle. Aziraphale’s chambers reflect his status as the youngest son (until a certain rebellion, of course). Not nearly as large as his older brothers’ rooms and certainly not near the heavily-guarded keep. When avoiding the King, of course, this was a nice location.

They slip through the servant’s wing and down to the merchant’s gate. A soldier glances up and smiles at them.

“I’m glad to see you sirs up and about,” he admits and gives a quick bow.

“Thanks,” Crowley replies uncertainly.

Beelze jumps off the steps and raises their hand to hail a rickshaw. One that is bicycle-pulled slows and pulls up to them. It rings its bell and Beelze clamors in. Crowley follows them, nearly tripping on the hem of his abaya.

“We’d like to go to the Venetian Market,” they direct, then sit back and tuck their veil tightly around their chin.

“Seven pence,” the cabbie announces.

“Six,” Crowley haggles. The cabbie nods and jumps on the pedals.

Crowley slouches in the seat, but his posture is at odds with his interest. His eyes dart around. He can’t seem to stop gawking at the people, buildings, or carriages. Beelze feels their annoyance fade some more. The air is hot and smells like the sea.

This brings back an intimate memory from their morning and Beelze pulls their headscarf closed to cover their blushing cheeks. Sex on the beach with the King, good heavens, when he’s supposed to be in mourning. They wonder if the goddess is questioning her choices in allowing them to live.

The market isn’t far, but even so, the cabbie is breathing hard as he pedals. Crowley discretely unties his purse and selects a handful of coins. He pays the cabbie and they join arms to wander the market. All around them are _oiran_ out for some retail therapy.

Crowley and Beelze look like the out of town cousins in their traditional, Southern abayas and they garner quite a few long, judgmental looks from those in short, daring, and fine silk abayas. Some, however, were certainly at Aziraphale’s birthday. These stare openly at the painting on their foreheads.

Crowley ignores them all and swaggers through the stalls.

“Shall we find the haberdasher?” he asks as he stretches his long neck to look over their head at the baubles on the far wall.

“This way,” they guide turn down the broad main walkway. It divides into four sections, and while Crowley is looking at all of it with poorly concealed wide eyes, Beelze directs them to the fabrics. This section of the market is not open-air stalls, but little shops.

Many courtesans mill about looking at the selection of purple mourning fabrics. The Queen’s funeral will be well attended it seems. There is a line awaiting the haberdasher, but Crowley strolls into the shop.

“Pardon me,” he draws, all flash and drama, “the King’s consort and I need mourning wear and we’ve been so busy with the damn rebellion that it’s the last minute. Could you see to us?”

Several companions chuckle, disbelievingly. Crowley gives a serpentine grin, then pulls back the sleeve of his abaya to reveal the barest traces of his bonding paint. Some of the smiles fall away. Then he flicks his wrist so that Aziraphale’s ring catches the light. More courtesan’s expressions darken. Beelze glares at him then pulls their headscarf back. The tailors nearly fall over their customers to get to Beelze’s side.

“Out! Out!” one of the women shouts, throwing other customers out of their shop.

“Forgive us, Lord Beelze,” the other pleads with a deep curtsy, “we haven’t seen such, umm, Southern garments in a long while. We did not recognize you.”

The first woman is studying Crowley indiscreetly, while curtsying. “Master Crowley, is it?”

He grins with less teeth and more sincerity this time, “At your service.”

“We heard that you were both gravely injured,” the first tailor admits.

“We did have some run-ins with the usurpers, but I believe our injuries were greatly exaggerated,” Crowley smoothed with all his trained graces. “The King and the Prince are a touch, hmm, possessive of their things.”

This draws a startled laugh from Beelze. “Enough of this gossip. We have to hurry to return to the palace. We are already breaking mourning by being here,” they remind the tailors.

The best bolts of silks are paraded before them. Beelze feels the stir of unease as they study the rich fabrics. Crowley’s skepticism is more vocal. He raises one ginger eyebrow at the tailors.

“Silk for a funeral is unorthodox at best, blasphemous at worst.”

The second tailor stares at him. “You’re the royal consorts.”

“And we weren’t raised in a barn. The Queen Mother is going to her ever after rest and we will send her off with our respect,” Crowley scolds.

“Linen, please, and in traditional purples, none of these ornate patterns,” Beelze directs, once they’ve found their voice.

The tailors exchange chastened looks and return with the requested fabrics. Beelze sees a shade that reminds them immediately of Gabriel. They reach out and touch the bolt.

“This will do nicely,” they decide.

The tailor nods, then directs them to the measuring block where she begins to take their size. There are certainly a few strange looks when she sees how Crowley has helped them shorten their tunic with a belt. They ignore the embarrassment that flushes their cheeks and looks straight ahead.

“Traditional cut for the outer robe, Lord Beelze?” the tailor asks as she circles their waist with a measuring tape.

“Less dramatic, for certain. Crowley’s the flash bastard. Lapels if possible.”

The tailor nods and makes a note on her scratchpad. “Color for the tunic under the robe? Cream, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Beelze decides, allowing the word to stretch out thoughtfully. “The same cream as the royal crest.” This satisfies the tailor.

“Cravat or necktie?”

Beelze contemplates this, “Cravat, if you would.” This also earns a pleased nod from the tailor. Apparently she is willing to sew these more creative mourning clothes, but appreciates the classics.

Crowley has chosen a purple linen that looks more like red wine, but it suits him. The tailors flit about and then make noises about “just sending the invoice along to the castle in time”.

“The prince asked me to settle our debts,” Crowley argues and unties his purse. “No doubt it will cost more with the expedited sewing?”

“Twelve shillings, 9 pence,” the tailor gulps. Crowley does not take out his money, but reaches into his purse and counts the coins by touch. He sets the money on the counter with a nod.

“We shall send the garments to the palace?”

“Indeed, to myself or Master Crowley,” Beelze agrees and resettles their headscarf. “Thank you for your help in this sad time. May you and yours enjoy the blessings of Béḃinn.” Both consorts kiss their fingers and brush their sigils.

They step back into the bright sunlight. There are people loitering just to see them and Crowley tucks his veil tighter around his chin.

“What did you think would happen?” they whisper angrily at him.

“Just this,” he admits with a smirk. “Let them look. We’re here to peruse.” He takes his older sibling by the arm and they begrudgingly let him.

They wander through the many vendors of fabrics. Crowley stops and fingers several delicate mourning veils. Some are beaded and others embroidered.He selects one of the same fashion as his presentation to court—it will hide his eyes and then another in the form of a headscarf. He purchases four.

“Do you need four more, little brother?” they needle.

“Two are for you, you idiot,” he growls. They look away in surprise. “We’ve got six months of purple ahead of us. We best make the most of it.”

Together they pause to admire slippers and silver bangle bracelets. They watch the fishmongers throw giant red-scaled snappers into newspaper wrapping and pour fresh water into buckets full of live eels. They share souvlaki, each taking a bite then passing it to the other. The pita is hot and the tzatziki sauce creamy. As the hours pass, the market seems to empty, but it could just be Beelze’s preoccupation with their domestic troubles and brushes with death. In fact, as Crowley shops, they let their mind wander.

“Aziraphale needs sealing wax,” Crowley remembers as they pass a stall with parchment and quills. He examines each color of blue. He lifts it up to the daylight and then tilts it so he can see it both with his tinted lenses and without. While he’s distracted, Beelze examines sketchpads.

There is one that is finer than the one Crowley damaged. It’s larger with thicker parchment and ties shut. The leather is dyed a deep crimson. They carry it over to him along with a few selected art pencils.

“You need this,” they note. He glances down at it, then up at the vendor.

“All this, please,” he decides, not arguing with his sibling’s assessment.

These treasures paid for and secured in their basket, the siblings drift back toward the center of the market. Beelze notes that there are many items in Crowley’s basket that they did not see him purchasing. They really must be out of sorts.

“Is that money burning a hole in your pocket?” they jest.

“Something like that,” he agrees with a swing of his hips. “We’re going to be in for a while, so I bought some activities.” He says this word with a lilt of humor. Beelze will wait to see what these entail.

“We should get you some jewelry for your chalk,” Crowley decides.

“Too flashy,” Beelze argues.

“For the consort of the King? I think not. Plus, if anyone’s flashy, it’s you. I heard that you and Gabriel christened the beach this morning.”

Beelze comes to a complete stop and stares at him. He grins with the pure, undulated shit-eating-grin that every little brother has mastered.

“Plus, Béḃinn has adorned your stomach, right? You might need something shiny for your forehead to match.” He tucks their arm under his again and drags them down the lane of vendors.

The fourth rule that Beelze knows about being a companion is that their time will pass quickly.

There are religions that believe the space between the eyes is the very origin of life. These mark that holy place with paint or jewels. Unlike these religions, Béḃinn marked her courtesans with chalk because, while their art is beautiful, it is fleeting. The companion could only practice their art for short years, no matter how they excelled at their craft. So, as with life, the chalk wiped or washed away each night.

The colored chalks, however, were a gift. Their goddess could have demanded only the silver of the moon or the white of snow, but she allowed her _oiran_ to tie in the colors of their Houses or of their patrons. Adding jewelry was only for special occasions, but not typically seen in the poor Southern district.

As they approach a stall that offers such extravagances, Crowley slows.

“I think you might need those,” he comments, completely serious. He points to a set of three baguette-cut onyx jewels that sit on a mannequin’s forehead. They’re surrounded by silver filigree that is reminiscent of a brooch. They’re small, delicate, and lovely.

“What are you getting?” they quiz him. “I’m not getting a gift you don’t buy something for yourself. Something frivolous,” they clarify when they realize he is about to say he got a new sketchpad.

He grumbles something and then calls the seller over. They leave with new purple chalk for their mourning, as well as the onyx jewels and a tiny set of seven mother-of-pearl flowers that Crowley kept stealing glances at.

“I don’t know,” he second-guesses as they walk toward the taxi stand. “I will only wear them on days when I feel, you know.” He flicks a hand in the air, as if that clarifies things.

Beelze waves at the first rickshaw driver in the unusually short queue and she pedals over.

“Six p to the palace?” Crowley asks and the girl grins.

“Sure, hop on!” she exclaims.

Crowley shakes his head, now knowing he’s been taken by the first cabbie, but allows Beelze to climb aboard ahead of him.Once they’re seated, they look over at him and watch him glance nervously down at the purse that holds the flower jewels.

“Only wear them on special occasions when it suits you,” Beelze maintains. They reach over and take his hand. “Some days aren’t flower days, so what? Wear them on days when it feels right. Just like everything else, little brother.”

He laughs, uncomfortably. “It’s a bit different than a suit coat versus a skirt.”

They wrap an arm around his shoulder and hug him. “Is it though?”

He sighs and the wind whips at their headscarves. It’s a quick pedal back to the palace, which leads Beelze to believe their first driver took a longer route than necessary. All around the town citizens have begun to hang purple crepe across door mantles and window ledges. Pots of marigold flowers appear on doorsteps. The official mourning period begins in scant hours and the city seems to already be preparing. Traffic is light and people are absent from the cafes.

They direct the cabbie to the main portcullis, which makes her nervous. There are more soldiers posted at the front of the palace than when they left. Beelze looks around curiously. Aziraphale’s troops must have arrived.

Crowley chuckles to the cabbie, “Don’t worry. They don’t bite.” He hands her the coin and hops out, then offers his hand to his older sibling. They’re met by two soldiers as soon as they step down to the pavement.

“Lord Beelze and Master Crowley, the King requests your attendance in his chambers immediately.”

Crowley shrugs and follows their escort into the palace, but dread hangs around Beelze. This is not going to go well. At best, they’ll have another row, but at worst, the King will limit Beelze’s access to the city. The gate rattles shut behind them.

When they arrive in their apartments, anxiety hangs in the air. Gabriel paces their receiving room in short strides. Aziraphale sits at a desk that has been brought in for him. Parchment is scattered in front of him and a pile of books. He lifts a quill only to set it down again. Two advisors who Beelze doesn’t know and Captain Device are also in attendance.

“Bee!” Gabriel shouts when he sees them. Both Beelze and Crowley give courtly bows, but Beelze’s is cut short as the King sweeps them into his arms.

“Gabri—honey?” they gasp through his tight grip. “How angry are you?”

He just holds them and sags. “I’m not. I got…something happened while you two were away.”

Aziraphale is across the room in quick strides also. He takes Crowley by both hands and looks him up and down.

“Are you all right?” he asks, concern dripping from every word.

“Angel, I’m fine. What happened?” Aziraphale seizes him by the waist and pulls him close.

Beelze notes the saber hanging at his waist. Device is wearing one too. Weapons are not worn in court.

“There was an attack on the city. A market was targeted by some of Michael’s troops. We,” Aziraphale’s voice wavers, “were unsure where you had gone.”

Crowley leans on Aziraphale’s shoulder and comforts him. Beelze repeats similar words that their little brother does. Repetitions of their safety and love ring out. The advisors leave them without a word, although Captain Device promises to only be outside the door.

“What happened?” Beelze asks, their voice nearly lost to their surprise.

“I sent Lieutenant Pulsifer and his troops to investigate, but it appears that the garment district was targeted with some sort of fire. The reports that I’ve heard suggest some sort of explosion,” Aziraphale explains as he reaches out to tuck Crowley’s errant curls back under his veil.

“For what purpose?” Crowley asks, angrily. “Why target civilians?”

“If Michael is still alive, and I believe that she is,” the prince begins but the King makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, “then she is trying to mount support.”

Crowley shakes his head incredulously, “Killing people gets someone support? I don’t understand how.”

Aziraphale brushes his fingers through Crowley’s exposed curls, further ruffling his headscarf. “I pray you never see a battlefield. But you need to understand that there is no logic in war, only strategy. Those are not the same thing.”

“Terrorizing people is strategy?” Crowley asks, his voice still full of confusion and derision. “All of this is because you captured her?”

“Technically, I defeated her twice,” Aziraphale says loftily.

“It’s not Michael,” Gabriel argues. “Her body washed ashore after last night’s storm.”

“We cannot definitively prove that was her. Nothing in any of this has been straightforward,” Aziraphale retorts before walking back to his new desk. He pulls Crowley along with him; Crowley goes willingly. “It’s all been one diversion after another. I think this is just another attempt to keep us off the main target.”

“What would that be, exactly?” Gabriel challenges. He sinks down onto a nearby ottoman and Beelze follows him. They slide down his side, kneel at his feet, and rest their clasped hands on his knee.

The prince pulls some documents toward him and flips over some of his notes. Crowley tilts his head so he can read these sideways, then pulls off his sunglasses and drops them onto the desk.

“This diversion in the garment district would have given an opportunity to free Uriel,” Aziraphale suggests and taps his writing. “We saw no proof of that, but perhaps I should search the castle.” He digs through his parchments and finds a map of the palace.

“Gabriel, do you really believe Michael is dead?” Beelze asks as the prince mutters to himself.

The King offers them a weary, but loving smile. He drops his hand over theirs and rubs his thumb onto the back of their wrist.

“I saw Sandalphon’s body while you were at the market. There is no doubt to me or Aziraphale that it is our brother. There was a woman about Michael’s stature also drowned.”

“Our brothers are certainly dead, but the warrior queen is alive,” Aziraphale’s mouth is tight as he speaks.

Gabriel and Aziraphale stare at each other, both unwilling to back down from their opinion.

“The woman’s body was wearing a regal tunic, but, brother, I brought her here in chainmail and woolens,” Aziraphale states.

“And no one thought to give the prisoner queen more suitable attire? There are too many servants here who would bring Uriel’s clothes to her sister,” Gabriel counters.

"It's not Michael," Aziraphale argues.

“Why not ask her sister to identify her?” Beelze asks before this can continue. The brothers exchange looks. Aziraphale leaves the desk and opens the door to the sitting area.

“Anathema,” he calls. Captain Device enters with a low curtsy.

“Take a guard to the tower. Collect Lady Uriel and ask her to identify the corpses in the crypt. Do not give her any suggestions to the bodies’ identities. Please collect what you learn,” Aziraphale commands with demure authority. His manner both surprises and pleases Beelze. Crowley simply looks further bewitched. The Captain bows and leaves.

“If you are correct and Michael lives,” the King speculates, “then what would her next move be?”

Aziraphale folds and unfolds his spectacles as he speaks, “Who can say? She’s an excellent warrior and tactician. So far, their designs have been beyond the scope we thought to look. Our every reaction was prepared for. However, if I were in Michael’s shoes, I’d need more support. I’d cause a distraction and then head East to meet my forces. I’d plan an assault on the countryside then march for the capital.”

“I shall send troops East,” the King decides.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Your generals are already in Michael’s land. To recall them to the border could result in unrest in that region. We should send word to keep the peace in that land and refuse to let her troops move to the border.”

Crowley pulls himself up to sit on Aziraphale’s desk and scans the prince’s notes. “You said that they’d want to collect Michael’s sister and heir. If they’ve been so prepared, would they be well-versed in our rituals? They would be prepared for us to, say, go buy mourning wear or take the Queen’s body out to the pyre tonight?”

Startled at his observation, everyone looks at Crowley. His snake-eyes flash.

“They attacked innocent people because they thought Beelze and I _might_ be shopping there. That attack was based on conjecture. But they know our funeral rites. So they know our mourning schedule for certain—the queen has been dead for four nights. She will go to the pyre at sundown. If they’re as determined as you think, then they will be waiting for us at that rite and then collect Uriel.”

“But attack during a funeral? I think even that’s a stretch,” Beelze taps their fingers on Gabriel’s knee. “They might just use our distraction to break into the castle—“

“With the amount of guards that are here? They’d have to be ready to lay siege,” Aziraphale comments, touching the arm of his glasses. “It’s certainly a possibility. Did you seen any preparations that seemed warlike in the town?”

Both companions share a look, then shake their heads. “Then they’d come by sea,” the prince decides. “We’ll be on the beach, so they could take us out and claim the dock. It’s a good tactic--if a little risky. The guard will protect the King and leave the beach open to invasion.”

Beelze rubs their sigil, “But what other options do we have? Ignore the gods’ orders about the dead? It’s the fourth day since your mother’s death.”

Gabriel reaches up with his other hand and pushed Beelze’s headscarf off their hair so it rests on their shoulders.

“If this a real possibility, then we shall break away from tradition. We will take our mother out on a pyre now, before dark.”

Aziraphale says with certainty, “The priests will never go for that.”

The King holds up his hand to stop this line of conversation. “I do not deny that no matter what decision we make there will be some sort of danger. We must choose to whom we will bow: the gods, Michael, or the clerics. No matter what, know that I will not have my family further broken.

“My advisors are already saying that my reign will be the destruction of this land. With all this bad luck, they may be right. I will protect my crown and my country, but first, I will shield the people of my heart.” He looks at his brother then down to Beelze. “I will not send you into danger again to stand next to a pyre simply because tradition says that the crown changes at night. Average people burn pyres during daylight and so shall we.”

Beelze rubs his knee reassuringly and thinks quickly, their mind buzzing like flies. “What if, instead, we announce that we’ve moved the rites to tomorrow night in honor of those citizens who died in the market today. The gods would forgive such a decision.”

This lights something in Aziraphale’s eyes and he grabs parchment and quill. He sets to work. Gabriel sees that his brother agrees with this plan and beams at his companion. Beelze is pleased. The King stands and opens the door into the sitting room. He calls to his advisors.

Once they’ve entered and closed the door, he issues his edict, “We will change the expectation of our mourning—we shall wait an entire day to mourn the Queen. Send heralds that tonight we shall mourn for our people lost in this accident. The citizens should hang their mourning drapes, while they reflect and pray.”

The two advisors begin to fuss. “The clerics will—“

“You will convince the clerics that this will protect the people. Alert the troops, we expect an assault by land or sea at dark. In the meantime, move the pyre further from the crypt. See this done immediately. We must make a target for these terrorists to strike where our people cannot be injured and our crown can be defended.”

The advisors seem to understand, at last, what Gabriel is ordering. They shift and bow, before hurrying out to make the arrangements. Aziraphale’s quill scratches across parchment.

“Brother, do you have counsel for us?” Gabriel asks. Aziraphale glances up and over his reading glasses.

“I shall. Give me a moment, sire, if it pleases you. I am drawing up a plan for the defense of the docks.” He returns his study and Gabriel gives Beelze his full attention.

“And you, sweetheart, what words do you have for me?”

Beelze moves from the floor to the ottoman. They pull the headscarf from their shoulders and twist it around their hands.

“You’ve heard my plan to move the funeral to tomorrow. Will it be safe then, I wonder? What would the gods say to burning the pyre in secret?”

Crowley slides around the desk, turning to face his sibling. Aziraphale’s hand absently rises and rests on Crowley’s thigh to hold him in place. Crowley reluctantly sits still. 

At their question, Gabriel clarified his decision. “I say we send Mother to her pyre now. The people will miss the blessings, but the clerics can declare these to the people tonight. No one would know of the changed plans.” Crowley shifts with the King’s words and Aziraphale squeezes his thigh.“I know, it’s not the send-off a queen requires, but we remove the target.”

Aziraphale drops his quill and blots his writing. He looks up at all of them with bright, excited eyes.

“I believe I have a workable plan to fortify the docks. I will order the cannons moved to the ramparts on all sides of the palace, however, just in case my theory is incorrect. But, I was thinking that we are quite focused on Mother's funeral. Michael would be far more focused on the coronation.”

They all look at him expectantly. Azirapahle pulls off his spectacles and says, “Uriel is still your wife—“

“No,” Gabriel argues, “my advisors and I put forth a plea to the temple of Dagda that our marriage is annulled on grounds of treason. The priests are in agreement.”

“But they haven’t ratified it!” Aziraphale says emphatically. “That’s the issue, brother. And they will never agree to such a change when the mourning period officially begins.”

“By that same logic, then Beelze and I cannot be bound to one another either,” Gabriel sighs and rubs his face.

“Actually,” Crowley argues, “that’s not true. Béḃinn’s rituals aren’t considered true marriage by law. It’s a similar bond in our eyes, obviously, and to Béḃinn, but to the law, it’s a business contract.”

His voice is tinged with frustration by the end of his words and Beelze catches his eye in sympathy. All he’s ever wanted it to be accepted for who he is. Taking his rights as a citizen from him was as frustrating as having unusual eyes or being abandoned as a child.

Aziraphale waits for these emotions to die down before he brings them back to the task. “We must deter Michael. I’m going upstairs and kill Uriel.”

Crowley leaps off the table and throws himself across the prince’s lap. “No, you’re not! Murder during the mourning of a queen? What? Are you trying to bring down the wrath of the gods? You won’t just get used to being damned, angel!”

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair under his headscarf again, like a talisman. “You would keep me from doing my duty in this?” he asks kindly.

"I would keep you from harm," Crowley declares.

Gabriel clears his throat and they all look to him. “Brother, you said you believe Michael will be focused only on the coronation. Tell us why, then explain this rash decision.”

“Michael will take the throne if she can. We have control of her nation. If she were to kill the line of succession, then she could claim her sister as Queen and run our land as a state to her empire. If we remove Uriel from the line of succession, then the temptation is removed,” the prince explains, looking grim.

"Michael will just declare herself emperess," Crowley argues. "Uriel will become her martyr." 

"If Gabriel is right and Michael is dead, then the war is lost if Uriel is dead. If Michael is alive, but Uriel is not, then she must change her goal to only attacking us."

"You just said that she was going to attack the palace anyway," Crowley jumps to his feet as he says this and stalks around the room like a caged animal. "What does this change?"

Gabriel seems to understand what Crowley does not. "The way that they will attack. They will leave the palace intact, if their goal is extraction. If they want us dead, they'll go for the total annihilation of the city."

Aziraphale grabs Crowley's wrist as he charges by and pulls him to sit in his lap. He holds him against his chest, even as his consort wants to continue to pace. He fights the prince for a moment, then suddenly goes limp in his arms.

"So either we're murderers or we're uncaring despots?" he complains, his head lolling on the prince's shoulder. Aziraphale shushes him. 

“It doesn't matter. Send her to the gallows,” Beelze demands, suddenly angry, “she is a traitor and a danger to my King. Let her be hanged by the neck and her head cast into the sea on a pike like other backstabbing scum.”

Gabriel frowns at their venom but does not deny them. “We cannot issue such a killing until I am crowned and we cannot commit execution during mourning.”

“Nor can you condone vigilante justice,” Beelze argues. “I will not have my brother-in-law murdering a woman in secret.”

Crowley rises from the prince’s lap and stretches. “And while you all argue over this, I am going to go get the Unity Cords, paints, and dishes. We need to have you two tied up and full of tea by the end of the hour.”

This takes the heat from all their seperate fights. Gabriel seems entranced at this option. He looks at Beelze with wet eyes.

“Make us the tea, Bee, sweetheart. It’s about seven years too late, but if we don’t get to it in the next hour, we’ll have to wait six more months. I don’t think I can do that.”

Beelze leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of his hand. “All right, my prince, if you’re sure.”

He chuckles, “I was sure then, but too stupid to listen to my heart.”

Crowley smoothes his headscarf, then lifts the basket of his purchases.He gives a slight bow and takes his leave. Aziraphale watches him go with a strange look on his face. He seems to be contemplating Crowley but shakes himself.

“A bond may not be a ‘legal’ marriage, but at least it could give us some grounds to claim inheritance, not that it will come to that!” the prince agrees.

“This is about my devotion to Beelze,” Gabriel replies, gently, “but you’re right, it also shows my people that I have finally sworn myself to the person that I love. Devotion and duty are a balance and I aim to strike it.”

Beelze kisses his hand, then rises. “I’ll go help, Crowley. I’m supposed to some of the prep myself,” they chuckle.

Gabriel looks uncomfortable at them leaving his sigh and Aziraphale is already wiggling to chase after Crowley, so they suggest that the prince follow them. It’s not a long walk, so when they reach Aziraphale and Crowley’s chambers and find him missing, Beelze’s stomach drops.


	19. White Snakeroot

Household gods are chosen by the materfamilias or paterfamilias, often with some input from their spouse. The former queen put her faith in the larger deities and swore that her family would find the qualities of “obedience, loyalty, and security” as their core values. 

Crowley sets his laden basket down outside the palace’s shrine. It’s located in the courtyard near his bedchamber, but he’s never visited. He bows before the door and presses a kiss to his fingers. He touches the mantle of the shrine's entrance and steps inside.

There is a large altar inside its small stone walls. Unlike the one in his House, this one is ornate and expensive. Gold leaf decorates the white marble and freshly cut ivy is festooned around the ceiling like a bower.

Crowley shuffles forward and kisses his fingers once again. This time he presses this to his temple sigil. He finds an unlit votive candle on the altar and touches it to his sigil. Then he tips its wick into the flames of a large prayer candle. Once it’s lit, he slides it into an open slot in the candle stand. He kneels and prostrates himself there before the altar.

His prayer is not loud. “Beautiful Lady Béḃinn, it’s your snake again.” He begins, then glances up at his candle. “I suppose I never got an answer about the peace request, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but, it’s umm, violent right now. Every moment of my day is filled with another piece of death. It would be nice to dance in peace, but I think we’re headed to war. And, er, about the pain? It’s gone, so, ugh, thanks. Thank you for that, my lady.”

He rests his head on the floor of the shrine. “Now, I need your guidance.”

He takes a shuttering breath and touches his sigil again. “Aziraphale will be asked to kill Lady Uriel. He carries blood on his hands. I would not add to it—but I am a coward. Would you have me kill Uriel to spare Aziraphale?”

He raises his head and looks up at the altar. It is as it was. He waits. Béḃinn had always been a quiet goddess until he was bleeding out. Now he wonders if she would return to her silence.

The ivy above him rustles. The candles flicker, but not forcefully. The smell of honeysuckle fills the temple. He arches an eyebrow. Apparently, he really is her pet.

The candles on the votive stand all burst into bright purple flames and their smoke billows up into a thick cloud. The cloud bends and pours down the altar. It encircles Crowley and he bows low.

“Béḃinn, my Lady?” he asks, his voice shaking.

_My sweet serpent._

Her voice warms him and he feels the tattoo that wraps around his back begin to burn. He leans his cheek into the smoke that touches his face.

_Would you do the work of a warrior?_

“I am bound in your name to protect him. If this will hurt him, then, yes,” he admits. He closes his eyes.

Béḃinn hums thoughtfully. _Crowley, my little snake, I did you a disservice. I let my little fly have two gifts. I only took one of your requests, but I was greedy. I was going to save your lives anyway. So tell me, my darling serpent, what is it you want?_

Tears prickle Crowley’s eyes. “I do not want another war. Peace for this land, my Lady. I ask for peace.”

_And if I told you that I would grant you that, but you must first suffer a war?_

He rubs his forehead on the marble floor and lets his tears fall. “I would be selfish then, Lady Béḃinn. I would beg you to keep Aziraphale from harm.”

_You already made that request when you took his sigil on your arm._ She reminds him. Humor is laced in her words.

“Then would you have me strike down Uriel?” he asks.

_If it were up to me, my darling serpent, I would snare her mind and rend her body in two myself. I cannot count the sorrow she has cost my beloved fly. But I will not give you direction until you mind me._

“My lovely goddess, what would you have me do?”

_I would have you request something of me. Something selfish. Something for you._

Crowley looks out of the corner of his eye. Hovering in mourning clouds, Béḃinn’s face looks back at him, more beautiful as the sun. More lovely than her name. He gasps and turns closer to better face her.

_Mind me, my little snake._

“An undisturbed hour with my prince to do something together without repercussions.”

She tilts her head at him curiously. He continues.

“He told me he’d take me sailing.”

Béḃinn gives a delighted laugh. _You want to go on a boat for an hour? That’s all that you want? Your sibling asked me to rewrite their body’s functions and you want an hour on a boat! How I love you, Crowley, my darling serpent._

Crowley ducks his head in embarrassment.

_Very well. If you kill Uriel, I shall give you and your prince time outside of time itself._

The companion squeezes his eyes shut. “I shall kill her if it is your wish.”

_For the good of the nation, my little snake, and for the good of your heart._ The goddess reaches out and brushes his veil into place on his back. _I see two paths, Crowley. One in which you slay Uriel and suffer from the repercussions of such a death. It will be a trial, I will not deny this. Yet, in another, Uriel murders Aziraphale and you wither away like a flower without the sun. If you choose this, I will take you away to dance with me now. I cannot bear to see you succumb to such sorrow._

Crowley closes his eyes and rests his cheek on the marble. He inhales to reply, but the smell of honeysuckle has gone. The air is still. He opens his eyes and, where the candle-smoke cloud had been, there is now a small purse embroidered with Béḃinn's Celtic knot.

He reaches for it and opens the pouch. A white powder lays inside.

_It’s not bad with red wine. She'll feel no pain._

The goddess whispers to him and he kisses his fingers and touches his sigil. He bows low to the altar and bows again as he exits the temple. He ties this purse onto his sash and lifts his basket.

As he walks back to his and Aziraphale’s chambers, he’s nearly flattened by his sibling.

“Crowley!” Beelze shouts and wraps him in a hug.

Aziraphale races from inside their sitting room and fidgets with his waistcoat.

“There you are, my darling boy, we were a touch concerned.” His fidgeting gestures and his speed to check on him speak to a level above “a touch”, but Crowley doesn’t mention this.

He extracts himself from his sibling and gives a reassuring hug to Aziraphale too.

“I was in the Household shrine,” he admits. “Today’s news has gotten me, well, I was having a moment there. I needed to recenter.”

The prince nods as if he completely understands and guides the two companions into their chambers. He shuts and locks the door.

Crowley empties their purchases from the basket and offers it to Beelze to collect the tea things in. He drops his purse into his wardrobe as he finds the Unity Cords and the paints. All the while, he thinks about red wine and a fine white powder.

Aziraphale sorts through their purchases. “Excellent choice on the wax, dear boy,” he commends. “Although we do have pillowcases already. Were they not to your liking? We can order new sheets!”

Crowley lets the thoughts of murder drift away.

“You mentioned our joined sigil as something to have in our chambers and on my clothes. I thought I might embroider those for our bed.” Aloud, it’s silly. According to Beelze’s expression, it’s almost embarrassingly sappy. He feels like a fool.

Aziraphale, however, is practically glowing. “Oh my darling,” he breathes, like an oath. “What a beautiful gift. Thank you.”

Crowley hangs his head. “They’re not finished yet, angel,” he mutters.

Beelze has all that they need and lift the basket. “He’s decent with a needle and thread. Someday, remind me and I’ll show you the sashes he made for me as Yule gifts.”

Crowley feels the telltale burn of a blush. “Those are old, I’m better at it now.”

“And he wasn’t shabby then.” Beelze dusts off their borrowed abaya. “I’d like to do this. Let’s go.”

The three head toward the Keep. As they near the throne room, Crowley stalls. He can pop into the kitchen, grab the wine, see to Uriel, and be back for tea. He just needs to get these two people he loves away from this mess.

“I’ll stop in the kitchens and get the water,” he offers.

“We could just ring for it?” Beelze argues, but Crowley delays.

“It’ll be faster this way.”

“Fine,” his sibling agrees, already climbing the stairs.

Aziraphale lingers behind. “Crowley? What’s on your mind?”

The companion feels a slight flick of concern. Has the prince noticed something? He takes a breath, reminds himself of his years of training, and lies.

“I’m worried, angel. A lot of deception and a lot of war tonight.”

Aziraphale immediately offers him a reassuring smile and cups his chin. “And we shall see it through together.”

Crowley leans forward and kisses him. They linger there, in the hall, trading kisses. At last, the companion pulls back. He feels time passing.

“I’ll just go to the kitchen,” he says.

“I’ll go with you,” Aziraphale offers, taking the companion’s arm. Crowley has a moment of panic.

“Actually, Beelze will need help with the setup. Could you head up?”

Aziraphale wiggles closer. “I should be the one to order the water then. You know what you’re doing in this ritual. Last time, I just followed your direction.”

Crowley gulps and casts around for another excuse. Apparently, he takes too long because Aziraphale steps into his line of sight and suddenly looks serious.

“My darling, are you sure you’re all right?”

Crowley swallows and then the words tumble out of him. “Béḃinn visited me while I was at the altar.”

Aziraphale staggers but then curls his hand over Crowley’s elbow. “Did she give you a vision?”

Crowley shakes his head and then fingers the purse at his waist. “She spoke directly to me. I have a chore for her. If I complete it, I will suffer consequences—“

“Then you must not do it, Crowley. I will not have you injured—“

“No, angel. I think the issue will be with the law. I may be imprisoned. Yet, if I do not do as she wants, you will be killed. I am not willing to live with that eventuality.” His voice cracks.

Aziraphale yanks him forward by the elbow and encircles Crowley with his arms. “And I would not stand for you to be slapped in irons.” Crowley allows himself this comfort and hides his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

“You might if you knew my crime,” Crowley says, quietly. He allows the prince’s robe to muffle his words.

“Then share it with me. We will face it together,” Aziraphale begs. He pulls back from their embrace to look into Crowley’s face.

Crowley hesitates. The prince reaches out and takes Crowley’s waist in his hand, then forces Crowley’s other hand up into a dancing pose.

“Tell me, my darling love,” Aziraphale coaxes and guides them around the hall in a slow, music-less waltz. Crowley is too well trained to sink into poor posture, but he does sag into Aziraphale gracefully. He presses his cheek to the prince’s

“She gave me poison that adds to wine,” he whispers directly into Aziraphale’s ear. The prince stiffens.

“Uriel?”

Crowley hums his affirmation. Aziraphale is flustered. His steps falter.

“No, Crowley, I won’t ask that of you. I have already discussed it with the King—“

Crowley steps out of the dance hold, but keeps Aziraphale’s hand in his. “I asked that I could protect you from this.”

The blow is instant. Aziraphale gasps, light and quick. He looks at their joined hands, then let’s go of Crowley’s fingers.

There is a fleeting moment when Crowley feels the world around him turn to ash. Béḃinn said there would be repercussions. She did not mention if losing Aziraphale emotionally was an option.

“Crowley, I was raised to be a soldier. I do not _need_ protected, certainly from this,” the prince corrects. His tone is more polished and official than it usually is when they speak together. “I am going up. Order the water. Get rid of that… it dishonors me that you think I need cleaned up after. I am a prince of this land! The heir to the throne! I am not weak.”

His voice raises in anger and he stalks off up the stairs. Crowley stands there, unmoored. He walks toward the kitchen. As he approaches, on a sideboard, is a bottle of red wine. He pauses.

An unseen breeze blows through the room and carries with it the scent of honeysuckle. Crowley grabs the bottle of wine and an opener, then turns and walks up the stairs to the tower.

He nods to the guards outside Uriel’s tower rooms. They’ve seen him here as the lady’s “babysitter” on numerous occasions. They do not ask questions when he asks to enter.

Uriel lays across her couch, still in her nightgown.

“Oh, good, someone to keep me company before I am bored to death,” she grumbles, after she glances up at him.

Crowley walks over to the table and opens the bottle of wine.

“No glasses?” she asks, as she walks over to watch him.

“Nah, it’s better straight from the bottle,” he lies. He lifts the purse from his waist and opens it. He dumps the white powder into the bottle. Some misses and spills about the neck of the bottle like a dust. Uriel looks at him in alarm.

“Is that—“

“Yep. Poison. You have two options, really. This is one, the other is the gallows in twenty minutes. Your sister and her navy are on her way to free you—you know this, of course—and we can’t have that. So which will it be? Poisoned or hanged?”

An _oiran’s_ lies are always based in truth. How could one face a nasty patron and give complements in any other way? Even an insult can be stated as a compliment to the most accomplished liar.

Uriel must want such a liar. She looks at the bottle. “Will it hurt?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, you’ll just go to sleep. And it’s a good vintage, so it should taste nice too.”

Her hand trembles when she grabs the bottle. She looks at Crowley and her eyes are large like a cow’s. “So you knew Michael wasn’t dead? Even when they took me to the crypt?”

She takes a slug of wine. She swallows.

“We thought so, but this is actually the first confirmation I’ve heard.” She takes another long swallow. He smiles comfortingly at her. “Would you like me to play for you? Or we could play chess?”

Uriel points to the tiny pianoforte in the corner. “I’d like a nocturne.”

She sits on the floor, braced against the stool. She drinks deeply from the bottle. Crowley sits above her and rests his hand on her shoulder. She shrugs him off and drinks again. He begins to play.

She’s about halfway through the bottle when Aziraphale throws open the door. Crowley does not stop his song, he simply looks up at the prince and then looks away.

Aziraphale freezes there in the doorway, surrounded by guards.

“Sorry, boys,” Uriel apologizes gleefully, her lips already surrounding the opening to the bottle, “it’s already done.” She takes a long pull from the wine. “I like my neck. I want it unbroken in the afterlife.”

Crowley steps on the pedal and builds into the crescendo. Uriel’s head slumps against the pianoforte’s leg.

“I feel good,” she sighs. She closes her eyes.

Aziraphale reaches over and closes the keyboard lid slowly. Crowley holds out his palm and pushes the lid open again, then returns his right hand to the keys.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, like he’s a dog or a student who has made a mistake. “Stop.”

“She asked me to play a nocturne,” Crowley answers, as if this even makes sense, and then plays on. He’s past any song he knows. He’s just playing the flowing speed and chords that blend well together.

The bottle falls from Uriel’s hand and rolls across the floor. Lazy red wine spills. Several guards kneel beside her. Someone calls for the doctor. Aziraphale lords over Crowley.

“You are done,” he commands. “Go to the King’s chambers.”

“Or what?” Crowley questions waspishly. “You’ll send me to bed without supper?” He swings his feet up onto the piano bench and rests one elbow on one knee.

Aziraphale glares at him then grabs him by the elbow and hauls him to his feet. He drags him back toward the table and grabs the poison purse. Aziraphale stuffs it into his pocket and dusts the table off with his hand. He looks over his shoulder as he does so. Crowley rolls his eyes.

Then, the prince frogmarches the companion down the halls and stairs to the King’s bedchambers.

“Sire,” Aziraphale begins and takes a knee. He shoves Crowley to his knees and then forward onto his hands. Crowley fights him with each push, but Aziraphale latches onto his neck and forces his head down. “I beseech you grant me clemency to make my case.”

Gabriel shuffles something around, but all Crowley can see is the rug under his hands.

“My consort Crowley has just poisoned and killed Lady Uriel.”

Gabriel roars out, but it’s Beelze’s reaction that hurts him. Crowley hears them yell his name in pain and its followed, almost instantaneously, by the crash of a teacup.

Gabriel charges into Crowley’s sight and drags him to his feet by his abaya collar. His veil slips loose from his hair.

Beelze yells, “Gabriel, no!” He ignores them.

“You fuckin’ snake,” Gabriel growls, “you have cost us an element of our negotiation!”

He drops Crowley back to the carpet and the companion does not try to rise. His headscarf dangles free and drifts onto the floor.

“Brother, take him to the tower.”

Crowley decides he should actually defend himself, since no one else will. “Uriel admitted to the plot. Michael is alive. She expected to be freed by the navy—they’re coming by sea.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale forcing himself to look forward. There’s a tremor in his hands, but he is resolute.

The King yells, “And when she comes, she will see that we have committed the grievous murder of our wife,” at this Beelze reels back and looks away, “on the night of mourning for our nation and our Mother. And what will we tell them? What will we tell our people?”

“You will tell them that poison was given to the companion Crowley, pet of the goddess, by Béḃinn herself. You will tell them that Béḃinn said the repercussions on her servant, the serpent, were best for the nation and that he gave up his life, his good name, and his beloved to protect your realm,” Crowley’s eyes are wet without his permission. His voice is thick and cracks when he says “beloved.”

He bows lows, kisses his fingers, and as he presses these to his temple, he blesses the King. “It is with the blessings of Béḃinn that I leave you, Your Majesty, and our time together. I pray that the bounty of the goddess rain on your land. I also ask that you care for my sibling as I have loved them. I ask that you protect the prince Aziraphale as I was unable to in anyplace but my heart.”

Guards file into the room and take Crowley by each arm. He does not resist.

“Wait,” Aziraphale calls, his voice full of tears. He leans down and collects Crowley’s headscarf. Reverently, he wraps it around Crowley’s head and tucks his hair under the fabric.

Beelze sobs and begs the King to at least listen to their brother, but he walks away from them and closes the door to the private study behind him.

Crowley cannot look away from the Prince. Aziraphale will not meet his eye. He only looks at his hands as they move the fabric and Crowley’s curls.

The guards pull him toward the door.

Aziraphale gives an order as they cross the threshold, “Keep him warm.”

Crowley keeps it together as they climb the many steps to the tower. This is not the side of the Keep where Prince Sandalphon and Princess Uriel were kept. Even as traitors, they were royalty. There is no sitting area, nor postered bed in Crowley’s room. Gone are his days of a hot water cistern and a balcony over the sea. In his new chambers, there is a tiny slit of a window and a sleeping cot.

The door slams shut and a lock slides into place. The late afternoon sun shines into his room. He keeps a lid on his emotions, even while he is alone.

There is a deafening boom. An alarm bell tolls and soldiers' running feet follow. Michael and her navy didn’t wait for night to attack.

Distantly, Crowley wonders if one of the advisors or clerics is leaking information, or if Michael is just impatient. He walks over to the sad cot and drops onto it. Strangely, it’s softer than the one he slept on as a child.

He feels numb. It’s a good thing, really, because when he begins to feel Aziraphale’s betrayal, he’s going to fall apart.Crowley's not sure he’ll be able to pull himself back together. He throws his arm over his eyes and tries to sleep.

It works for a while, drifting in a doze, but then the cannons sound. Their roar echoes through his stone room and ring in his head. Sometimes, something strikes the walls of the ramparts, and the very room around him creaks and rocks. Crowley tries to think of other things.

He wonders if he should pray. He could ask Béḃinn to send him Beelze. They could escape the tower in all the chaos, then steal horses, and ride South to their House. He rolls that thought around in his head. Lucifer wouldn’t welcome them back. Crowley would have broken his pledge bond—the ultimate black mark for a companion. Plus, Beelze could still be happy with the King.

He could pray that an arrow somehow breaks through the window slit and shoots him dead. He could go dance his afterlife away and never feel the tidal wave of grief that is coming for him.

Or.

He opens his eyes and stares at the stone ceiling. Something impacts the castle and dust drifts down.

Or he could call for Aziraphale. This was his choice, he could say. Don’t send me away, he could plead. I’ll be the dog at your table. I’ll kneel at your feet. I’ll sleep on your floor. Don’t send me away. I know I’ve broken your trust, but keep me near.

Tears prickle. He slams his eyelids shut and forces these back. There is a whistling coming toward him, and, at first, he thinks it's the wind. Then a cannonball rips through the side of his room and stones collapse.

He has a dancer’s grace and a serpent’s speed, but this miraculous move can only be achieved because of his status as a goddess’s pet. He rolls toward the wall and the cot falls on top of him. As the bricks and rubble tumble down, they rain onto the bed. He lays there, tucked in a safe little angle of bed, wall, and stone debris unharmed.

Or so he thinks. As he pushes the cot off, he looks down and sees a piece of timber jutting out of his side.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he growls. The wooden splinter is about the width of his thumb and is sticking out of the exact place that Sable stabbed him.

Blood sluggishly darkens his black tunic. Crowley takes a hold of the splinter and yanks it out. Blood trickles out faster, but he pulls one of the sheets from the pile of stone fragments, rips it, and presses it to his side. He finds his headscarf in the debris and uses it to pressure dressing. He ties it tightly around his torso.

Thus prepared, he makes his way toward what was once the door. Instead, there is a gaping hole in the wall and floor. It’s about a meter across. Crowley leans down and looks into the hole to the floor below. The hallway there looks more intact. He sits down and swings his legs into the opening. He takes a deep breath and drops down.

Crowley lands in a crouch. Pleased to have landed to gracefully, he stands up and dusts off his hands. Of course, when he comes around the corner there is an entire group of the King’s guard.

The companion slowly slips back around the wall and prays that all of them are blind. They are being given orders and they all rush off when they’re dismissed. Crowley counts to twenty, then rounds the corner again.

He doesn’t actually know his way around the tower, but from his present location, he can see that the ramparts begin at these doorways. The walkways out over the walls run both ways. He takes a fortifying breath and hurries across this pathway. To one side is the sea and Michael’s ships upon it. He counts seven. To the other is one of the many courtyards. Crowley climbs over the parapet and shimmies down a gutter. His side screams in pain, but he refuses to stop.

He runs across the courtyard until he finds a door to the main palace. Once inside, he realizes he’s not far from the throne room. Getting passed all this will be tricky.

Crowley stays close to the walls and ducks into doorways whenever someone from the court nears. Everyone is so focused on their own safety and the nature of the battle that they ignore him. A few turns more and he’s in the hallway that will take him to his and Aziraphale’s bedchambers.

He corrects himself: what was formerly his and Aziraphale’s bedchambers.

Crowley’s future bed is probably a grave at this point. He doesn’t linger on that thought. Instead, he presses a hand to the makeshift bandage at his side and strides down the hallway. When he pulls his hand away to open the door to their sitting room, his palm is sticky.

He ignores this as well and makes his way into the bedchamber. Once there, he strips out of his bloody abaya and pressure dressing. He stumbles into the ensuite and pours clean, warm water over the wound. He hisses in pain as he cleans it and presses a towel to the hole. As he does, he sees himself with smeared chalk in the mirror.

“My lady,” he prays, unable to free his hand to kiss his sigil, “I was really hoping this would end better.” He finds himself laughing without humor. He dips his hand into the water and splashes it across his face until the chalk runs off his skin.

Crowley hears another rumble of war and something outside collapses. It might have been the balcony to their sitting room. He finds a tunic that he sort of hates and rips it into strips that he ties around his side. It’s bleeding slower, but he still feels dizzy.

“Too much blood loss these past days,” he theorizes aloud. It might be a prayer and it might be madness. Who could tell?

He finds a silk dressing gown that he’s always loved and loops it over his shoulders. Then, exhausted, he staggers to his desk. He finds all that he needs to write his letter and so begins.

_My dearest beloved,_

_Angel, please forgive how cruelly I have hurt you. Your trust was never mislaid in me. I was in that moment, still am, and forever shall be your servant. As I promised you, I will be at your side in laughter and pain, your protector from harm, and your companion in light and dark._

_All my love,_

_Crowley_

He presses his hand to his side again as he stands. This should not be bleeding this much. The wound is not nearly as deep as Sable’s stabbing. Crowley blinks away the tears that threaten to take him down. He makes his way toward his bureau, where he finds his torn sari and rips another strip of silk from it. Next, he locates their Unity Cords in the bedside table. Each of these he wraps around his letter. Then, with the added exhaustion of grief, he climbs into his marriage bed and slides under the duvet.

Something explodes outside in the gathering darkness. The wall in Aziraphale’s bedchamber falls away into the sea. Crowley closes his eyes and drifts to sleep with his letter still clutched in his hand.


	20. Ultimatums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOO HOOOOO! So I should be finished in one more chapter, but I want to make sure, so I changed us to a question mark instead. Thanks for enjoying this!

Gabriel emerges from his study when the explosions begin. The bell that calls the soldiers to their posts rings. He hurries out into the sitting area and looks around in a panic.

Beelze stands on the balcony and uses the handrail as a ballet barre.

“Bee, get inside!” he shouts and runs to them. As he exits their rooms, he can see the multiple ships on the water. Canons fire.

Beelze bends at the knees into a demi plié and brings one arm out gracefully. Tear tracks streak across their face and their chalk is smeared as if they have wiped their face with their hands. They ignore him and turn away from him as if they meant to step that way. They move into first position. A cannonball strikes the ramparts and soldiers scream for reinforcements.Gabriel grabs Beelze and lifts them up by the waist.

“Let me go!” they shout, kicking back at his knees. Their long black tunic tangles around their feet and keeps the King from injury. He carries them inside.

“You Majesty!” a guard yells, “you are needed in the War Room!”

Beelze stops fighting as they exit their rooms into the hall. If anything, they go limp. “Let me go to my brother,” they whisper.

Gabriel stops walking and sets them on their feet. He turns Beelze to face him and stares at their reddened and swollen eyes. They look away.

“The War Room is the safest place in the Keep. I need you with me,” he declares.

“And the tower is the most dangerous,” they reply, their voice breaking. “Let me go to Crowley, please.”

Hurt, he tightens his hold on their shoulders. “Why would you leave me?”

They finally meet his eyes and the King is struck by how much pain wells there. “You’ll want to mourn your wife, Sire. I’d like to go to my little brother so that we can head South to our House as soon as it is safe. We will no longer burden your household, Your Majesty.”

Gabriel is completely baffled, “My wife? What are you talking about? My marriage is annulled, remember? We were going to have the tea—“

“ _You_ said, Sire,” they reply, quickly. “You said that Crowley murdered your wife. I’ll take him away and you’ll never have to look on him again… if you’ll allow him to live.”

Words flow around Gabriel. Yes, he remembers his words to Crowley in the heat of the moment.He opens his mouth to reply when Aziraphale appears in his vision. He’s never seen his brother in full armor, but it suits him the King thinks.

“Sire,” Aziraphale calls, “attend the War Room! They need your leadership. I am for the front lines.”

Gabriel feels the rip between devotion and duty. It’s the chasm he’s never been able to navigate. Beelze stands there, tears ringing their eyes, while ships attack the palace. Something impacts and the stones under their feet rock. It makes his decision for him.

“You will go with me to the War Room where you will be safe,” he orders, already turning to head that direction.

“Gabe, my prince,” they beg, their voice broken, “at least let me get him out of the tower.”

He does not turn to look at them. If he does, he will agree, and, thus, send them into danger. That has happened far too much these last days.

“With me, consort,” he demands, his voice solid. He looks back to see the impact of the title on them. He’s never called them anything but their name before.Beelze’s shoulders sag and they stare at him, stunned.

Their voice is grey and dead when they answer, “As you wish, Sire.”

It makes Gabriel shiver. People scream from somewhere in the castle and he leaves them there to march to the War Room.

It’s a chaotic scene inside. The tables are spread with a map of the coast. Model ships have been placed on the map to show their current positions. Markers list their own protections. Messengers run in and hand notes to specific advisors. These men and women read the messages, then adjust positions from all corners of the map.

Gabriel shakes himself and approaches the table. Beelze slinks in behind them like a kicked dog. They move past this room and into the inner chamber where beds and chairs rest. The King gives them a passing glance, then focuses on the task before him.

Three small, quick ships dart in and around their shore, like small minnows. In deeper waters, two warships fire giant, heavy guns at their palace walls. There are also another four mid-sized ships full of troops and, if reports can be trusted, horses. Michael brought her calvary.

Messages come in quickly. The fastest runner is a curly-haired girl named Pepper. She delivers and races out again without flagging. She is charged with climbing the many steps up to the top of the tower and then back down to the War Room. Gabriel loses count of how many times she has zipped in and out. He does focus on Beelze stepping out of the door after Pepper.

“Bee,” he calls and they freeze.

“No one brought up provisions,” they state. “I’m going to kitchens. I’ll bring sandwiches and tea.”

The King feels a shiver of fear. “No, send someone else.”

Beelze holds up their arms to show that the War Room is full of advisors and messages. There is no one else.

“I’ll be back,” they reply when he notes their company. “That is, if you’ll let me go.”

An advisor calls to the King. He glances back and knows he’s needed there.

“Be careful,” he says, aiming for gentle. According to their face, he misses by a mile.

Adrenaline changes the passage of time. Seconds lengthen and heartbeats become hours. The palace rattles around them as the onslaught continues.

Beelze did not seem to be gone long enough, but, then again, he's been distracted. When they return, they have three little boys in tow. Each carry a tray with tea and snacks. Beelze guides them to set these on a sideboard, then makes them each take a cup and a sandwich. They herd them into the other room.

“Sire?” asks one of the advisors. “Weren’t those servants?”

Gabriel steps away from the table and his war to push the door open wider into the other room. Beelze has bundled all three boys, Adam, Wensleydale, and Brian each into a seat. They fusses over them, washing their faces with a flannel from a basin and brushing their fingers through their hair when a cannon strikes the stonework. Beelze is singing to them as they drink their tea.

The door to the War Room opens again and Pepper walks in, far slower than ever before. She is still clutching the orders they sent with her for the tower.

“The tower is collapsed,” she says, lost. “I’m sorry.” She holds out the note to the King like an errant child. “The soldier on the floor was so bloody. I’ve never seen someone die before. He didn’t have a face anymore.” Her voice quivers.

Beelze swoops in and wraps their arms around Pepper’s shoulders.

“Let’s get you some tea, my love,” they soothe. They guide her to the teapot, make her a cup, then bring her into the room with the boys. The door shuts softly behind them.

Gabriel turns back to the map to see an advisor strike all their troops from the tower section of the palace. They draw a long slash of ink across the tower on the map. His heart clenches. Instantly, regret surges through him. It’s one thing to know that he’d sent soldiers to their death in a battle. It’s another to know that his brother-in-law died because he refused to let him out of a room.

And it’s something completely different to know that he’s just lost the love of his life due to his stubborn nature. Beelze will never forgive him for Crowley’s loss.

“Message, Sire!” an advisor yells, dragging him from his personal hell and back into the one that Michael is throwing at him. “It’s from your brother the prince.”

Gabriel takes the parchment and unfolds it. He skims the words and feels a moment of panic. Aziraphale is an exceptional leader. He has many victories in war. He has studied strategy both in the schoolroom and on the battlefield. Gabriel has never had to see the play-by-play of his decisions, however. This venture, like many of Aziraphale’s tactics, is risky, but brilliant.

If he sends a runner now, his message to make his brother retreat will be received in time. He’ll protect the only family he has left. Gabriel looks up at the door that separates him from Beelze.

He faces his advisors, “Prince Aziraphale is mounting an attack. Add the funeral pyre to the map.” He must trust his brother in this.

The battle rages outside this room. Somewhere near the sea, Prince Azirapahle is manning his mother's funeral pyre like a sailing ship and sneaking onto one of Michael's warships like a Trojan Horse. 

An hour passes. There are a number of terrifying noises—then sudden silence. They’ve won.

Gabriel nods as his advisors bow and cheer in victory. They hug and clasp each other on the back. The King, however, can only offer brittle smiles. He meets with each of them and takes their final thoughts. He reads messages of surrender from the enemy. Finally, he turns his back on them and opens the door to the room where Beelze hides with servants.

His consort sits in the very center of the bed with the children are all curled in a giant pile, like sleeping puppies, on top of them. Adam and Brian are still awake and whisper to one another. Beelze lowers the book that they are reading aloud to the children. They look at the King.

“Sire?” they ask.

“It’s over, Bee.”

They give the most broken laugh he’s ever heard. It stabs into his heart. It’s more sob than a chuckle.

“I know, my prince. I know it is.”

He clutches the doorknob in his hand. They're talking about different things, but neither of them are incorrect. “The battle is won.”

They nod and look away from him to rub at their eyes. The King is summoned by other advisors.

“If you go now,” Beelze whispers and the King and children all lean toward them to better hear, “then I’ll know you’ve chosen everything else over me. Again. Just once, Gabe, just once, I’d like to be first in action, not just in your words.”

He pushes the door open and steps into the room. A single lamp lights the room, but this lone flame leaves much of the room in shadow. It must have been difficult to read by. Beelze sets the book down on the bed next to them.

“I tried earlier with the tea,” he begins, then stops himself. He rubs his mouth with the palm of his hand. “All right, tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do it, Bee.”

Beelze guides Pepper’s sleeping head from their knee and slides out from under the pile of boys. They climb off the bed and stand before the King. There is smudged chalk across their forehead and up into the roots of their dark hair. Their eyes are tear-swollen and their lips are anxiety-bitten. Crowley’s borrowed abaya hangs off them without the belt. It engulfs their feet and puddles on the floor.

Beelze tilts their head up to them and waits on him. He inhales.

“Tell me, Bee, sweetheart,” he asks again, this time a bit desperately.

“Make my brother live again,” they demand.

Before the King can reply to this impossibility, there is a sharp and pained gasp from behind him. Gabriel closes his eyes in regret, then spins to face his brother. Aziraphale braces his whole body on the doorframe. The gauntlet that protests his arm trembles as he clutches the wood. His breath comes in heaving gasps.

Beelze pushes past the King and tugs the prince into their arms. Aziraphale goes limp then and collapses into their hold. Unable to hold up his weight in his armor, they both sink to the floor. Aziraphale gives broken sobs that almost sound like coughs.

“Again?” he cries, “I’ve lost him again?”

Beelze seems to give up any hope of holding themselves together and gives an absolutely tortured moan before pitching forward into Aziraphale’s chest. Gabriel can only stand over them and watch them grieve.

The children wake to this. They bunch together in a heap and begin to cry at the scene of mourning before them. The King can do nothing but stand and watch them like a stone.

Their tears slow. When they are down to sniffles, Gabriel clears his throat.

“I will knight Crowley and he will be given full royal honors,” he decides.

“No,” Beelze says. Their voice is rough from tears but determined. “No, _oirans_ return to the land where they served. He will go home with me.”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles, “No, he’ll stay here. He’s my partner. He’ll go into our family crypt.”

Beelze pulls away from the prince and attempts to stand. Their legs wobble and Gabriel reaches out to steady them. They allow it, but Beelze must swallow their pride first.

“Your bond means _nothing_. You broke it.” Beelze spits on the floor. Then they wipe their eyes on the sleeve of their abaya. “You turned on him and sent him to the tower. He was loyal to you in all things and you were just a fair-weather patron.”

Azirapahle crumples forward and cries. He presses his palms into the floor and lets his head hang. Beelze looks down on him with no sympathy. Then, they turn to the King.

“If you will allow it, Sire, I will go to my chambers now.”

They give a disinterested bow and exit without a backward look.

“Fuck,” the King says feelingly.

Aziraphale gives a watery laugh from the floor, but this wobbles into another sob. He buries his face in his hands and shakes. Gabriel claps his shoulder and wracks his brain for a way to fix this.

Personal matters must wait again, though, it seems. He is summoned immediately to walk the palace grounds and see the damage. It takes three hours to tour the broken stone and see the bits of ship that lap at the shore.

Then, the strangest thing happens.

The world around him shimmers and everyone freezes in place. The sky takes on a silver-white haze and the King turns in a slow, confused circle. The wind does not blow. Flames do not burn. The court and guards do not breathe.

In alarm, the King runs back toward the Keep, searching out any who are not frozen. Servants, soldiers, and courtesans have all stopped. Then, as he races through the throne room, he hears something on the step in the main stairwell. He runs toward this sound.

There, Beelze trips on their too-long abaya and tumbles.

“What the fuck is going on?” they shout when they see him. “Is this Michael’s witchcraft?”

“Sweetheart!” Gabriel shouts at the same time and runs toward them. “Are you all right?”

He helps them back onto their bare feet, but they pull away from him quickly. They rub at their stomach.

“It’s everything,” they observe, confused and alarmed. “Even the sea is still.”

“Everything but us? It makes no sense,” the King comments.

Beelze rubs at their stomach again. Gabriel leads them through the galleries and courtyards. Everywhere they find the same: stillness and silence. In each new place, the companion rubs the spot where they were mortally wounded.

“Bee, sweetheart,” he begins and intentionally ignores the face they make when he calls them this name, “is your tattoo hurting?”

They freeze and yank their hand away from their stomach. “No, it’s fine.” It’s a terrible lie. They seem to know it too because Beelze frowns dramatically and closes their eyes. “It’s burning,” they finally admit.

“Are you hurt?” the King asks and kneels down to lift up the hem of their abaya. Beelze seems ready to argue, but then gives up.

The tattoo looks the same as it had since it appeared. The pure white skin of Beelze’s stomach is Gabriel’s altar and he doesn’t stop himself from worshipping. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the skin next to their newly-gifted tattoo. Beelze groans and steps back until they collide with the wall.

“Please,” they beg, heartbroken, “you made your choice. Don’t string me along again. I deserve better.”

Gabriel ducks his head, realizing just how much damage he has done.

“You deserve the best. I made the wrong choice.”

Beelze’s eyes well again and they cover their face so their eyes are hidden.

“You always say that. Then, when it's time to prove it, you always choose duty over me. I thought things were different, but,” they gasp and clutch themselves in a hug, “you are just full of words. No actions.”

The King feels his temper flare. “We’re engaged! Remember that? You’re wearing my ring!”

Beelze holds up their hand so that the red jewel flashes. “I am wearing it. But so what? You asked me in private. You were still married. You never announced it to the country or the court. It’s only known to us and Cr—“ Their words die out and they double over with a cry. When they’ve regained their voice, they lament, “Only known by us. No one else. No one else alive.”

“The priests!” Gabriel argues.

Beelze slides down the wall and hugs their knees. “Will you announce it to court?”

“My mother’s mourning period has begun—“

“—nevermind." They press their face into their knees and then make a decision. "I knew you'd never do it. I’ll go back to Lucifer’s House and return to active service. You can mourn the mother you hated and the wife you despised for six months. I’ll get a few days off to bury my beloved little brother and then have to give up the colors of mourning. An _oiran_ must be happy! Always gay! Always witty!” Their voice rises in hysteria. “It’s not fair! I’m so tired of nothing being fair!”

They collapse back against the wall, all energy drained away. Gabriel crawls toward them on his hands and knees.

“Or,” he offers, “you can stay here. Mourn Crowley for as long as you like. Give him proper rites. Wear purple for thirty years and never be witty again—but stay, my love. Stay with me.”

They shake their head slowly, like they’re drunk. “No, I won’t make myself watch you pretend to mourn them all out of duty. I deserve better.”

There is a clatter behind them and for a moment the King thinks this strange freezing magic has ended. Then, from the hallway that leads from the War Room, the prince emerges. His sword is drawn.

“Sire? Brother?” he calls when he sees them at the base of the stairs. He runs down to them, his leather armor clanging against his chainmail. He slides his sword into his scabbard. “What is going on?”

“Oh, I can answer that,” Crowley replies from behind them all in the entrance of the throne room. He leans against the wall and takes several labored breaths.

Beelze tries to collapse in on themselves and leap up in the same movement. It makes them convulse.

“Brother! My baby brother!” they shout with a heartbroken cry.

Crowley staggers forward but stumbles. Aziraphale flies to catch him. He bundles the companion in his arms and presses his face into Crowley’s hair. The King rises stiffly and offers his hand to Beelze. They’re trying to get their weary, uncooperative feet under them. Unable to keep fighting this, they grab the King’s hand and he tugs them up. Beelze’s bare feet slap the floor as they leap into Crowley’s chest. The companions embrace each other as the prince also refuses to let go.

“Easy, Beelze,” Crowley grumbles. “That side hurts.”

Aziraphale pulls at the sash on Crowley’s dressing gown until it hangs open. Gabriel means to avert his eyes, but green, ripped fabric catches his eye. It’s been made into a makeshift bandage, which wraps around the companion’s chest. Blood has dried through the fabric, leaving it drenched a strange color combination of crimson and forest.

Fresh blood leaks down his side. Beelze flails about as they pull their abaya over their head and shove it into Aziraphale’s hands. The prince presses the fabric to Crowley’s side. He gives a yelp of pain and tries to pull away.

“Why is it always you?” Gabriel asks, a bit dazed at seeing Beelze in their underwear in the main stairway.

“I was just asking myself the same thing, mate—err, _Sire_ ,” Crowley replies, looking woozy and embarrassed.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley over to the stairs and helps him sit down. Beelze slides into Crowley’s side and takes over the job of applying pressure. Then the prince begins the arduous job of untying multiple layers of armor. He never looks away from his consort once.

“Why is the world frozen, little brother?” Beelze asks, still unable to look away from Crowley’s face.

“You of all people can’t already figure that out?” he harps as he reclines on the stair. “She promised me a gift if I killed Uriel. Now I was supposed to get to open it. Only, in the usual fucked up way of things, I’m stabbed again and can’t enjoy my present.” He looks over to Aziraphale, then looks away quickly.

“The goddess Béḃinn froze the world because you asked her to?” Gabriel asks, completely at a loss for any appropriate tone. His voice settles somewhere in the “bewildered” area.

Crowley shakes his head “no,” but then groans as the world appears to spin. Aziraphale tosses his shoulder armor onto the floor and drops onto the step at Crowley’s hip.

“How long have you been bleeding like this?” he asks, worriedly.

Crowley makes a thoughtful sound. “It felt like it went fast. The tower had a hole in it, so I jumped down a floor. Then climbed down the wall. Umm, went to bed and took a nap. Dunno how long ago.” His speech is slow and pouty. “I didn’t mean to go to sleep. Probably bled in the bed.”

“It doesn’t matter, my darling, just hold on for me.” Aziraphale looks at Beelze and then his brother in concern. “The world is frozen, so no healers can help us. Some gift this turned out to be.”

“Hey,” Crowley reprimands. “It was supposed to be an hour of time with you. You were supposed to take me sailing.”

Beelze and Gabriel share a look of disbelief. “You stopped time to go sailing?” they both ask simultaneously.

“It doesn’t sound romantic when you say it that way,” he says haltingly as if he’s tired.

Aziraphale tugs his chainmail over his head and gives it a toss. It skitters across the marble. He leans back over Crowley and cups his chin.

“Of course it does, my dear boy. We’re just worried.”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale's woolens. "How can you fight dressed like that?"

"We won, my darling. It's over."

Crowley seems to relax. "That's good."

Gabriel joins them and sits on the step below Beelze. Their legs brush his arm. It’s when he changes angles to better press against their leg that he sees the purse. He tilts his head and then addresses his brother.

“What is that?”

Aziraphale looks down and pulls the purse free of his tunic. “Béḃinn’s poison. I took it from Uriel’s room.”

In this strange, unmoving light the purse shimmers like water. When the King takes the pouch, it feels warm to the touch. The heat increases as it comes closer to the injury on Crowley’s side.

Gabriel gives a disbelieving laugh, “Open the dressings. I know what we need to do.”

Beelze looks at the King in disbelief, then sees Béḃinn’s symbol on the purse. They bite their lip, then pull all the bloodied fabric free. The bandage sticks to the wet injury and Crowley cries out with pain. The King unties the purse and pours the powder onto the wound.

It smells like honeysuckle.

Crowley yells when the powder makes contact. He squirms and claws the step below him. The wound smokes purple. It burns clean like a campfire and, in its place, a new tattoo is sealed onto his skin.

It is in the bend of the previous serpent tattoo's body. It's a flaming sword overlaid with a quill, curled with a serpent, and ringed with flying insects. All the symbols are drawn in the style of Béḃinn’s Celtic knots. Gabriel sees it and knows this is his new family crest. It will also be the new royal crest. It will appear on coins, clothing, and city signs. The goddess of courtesans, who knows his own feelings better than he does.

The smoke dissipates and Crowley gives a grunt of relief. He looks around to the three surprised faces. “Well I’m naked in public again, it seems.”

Beelze gives a frustrated grumble and throws the end of Crowley's dressing gown across his lap. Then, flings themselves back over the stair only to note their own state of undress. “Why does this always happen to us?”

“I think we got invited to a prince’s ball. Only our story didn’t end up being Cinderella,” he jokes in relief. The prince tosses his arm bracers at Crowley. He holds these up in confusion, then measures them against his groin. “It’ll be a look, but I can make it work.”

Aziraphale pinches Crowley’s bare thigh. “Behave. Those who almost die then come back to life by magic twice are supposed to be gallant.”

Then he looks at his brother and offers his hand. “Sire, congratulations on your defeat of Michael.”

The King takes it slowly to shake. “I believe most of that gratitude goes to you, brother.”

Aziraphale nods a bow, “It is my honor to be your in service.”

Gabriel feels a flash of insight. “Crowley, did you say we had an entire hour free of interruption?”

“Probably less than that now, but, yes, that’s what she promised.” He adjusts the arm bracers to cover his lap.

Gabriel stands. He faces the three seated on the stairs and asks the room, “Would anyone like to have a tea ceremony?”

Crowley shares a look with Beelze. Neither of them looks impressed.

“I’ve screwed this up again and again,” the King admits. No one argues. He frowns in discomfort.

“Bee, you are the love of my life. I cannot marry you until the end of six months of mourning. However, I would be honored if you’d allow me to take tea with you. I have fucked up every time it mattered, but I swear to you that it will never happen again. I will be at your side in night and day, in laughter and sorrow, and I can’t remember the other words, but I mean them all and so many more.”

He gives a shaky exhale. “Will you take me as your bonded partner? Will you be unified as one with me?”

Beelze stares at him. “I deserve better than you.”

Both Crowley and Aziraphale make noises of disbelief, but Gabriel speaks over them. “I know you do. But I will spend the rest of my life striving to earn your forgiveness and be what you need.”

Beelze stands slowly. They’re on a higher step so they stand eye-to-eye. “You are the love of my life. I will take tea with you, but if you ever speak to me the way that you did today, I will stab you in the kidneys.”

They hold out their hand to him. He takes it. “You will never treat me like a common _oiran_ ever again. If we take this tea, then I am your equal. I am your partner. You will not force me into decisions again. I want your respect, Gabe.”

He bows his head, chastened. “Please forgive me, sweetheart. I will do all that _if_ you promise me that you will never deliberately put yourself into harm’s way again.”

“I won’t swear to that,” they argue. “Honey, we don’t know what the future holds. I will promise you that I will try to be safer and wiser?”

The King considers their words before he nods. Satisfied, Beelze states,“I’ll need a few minutes to get ready. I am not doing this ceremony in my underwear and Crowley must be wearing pants.”

Crowley ribs his older sibling as he ties his dressing gown closed. “You’re the only one complaining.”

“I will not look at your baby snake dick during my bonding tea. I refuse.”

Crowley grimaces as he stands and rubs at his previously-injured side. He attempts to defend his honor as he leans on Aziraphale. “Do you think ‘baby snake dick’ when I’m naked?”

Aziraphale looks like he’s trying to avoid laughing. “I promise you, my darling, that is usually the last thing on my mind.”

The four spend the last of the magicked time-outside-time in a tea ceremony. They pour and drink. Knots are tied and symbols are painted. Gabriel looks at Beelze across their bound and decorated arms. Love explodes out of his heart. He feels like he will burst.

“My Bee. My sweet, sweet Bee,” he breathes, adoringly.

They look back at him in a way that reflects what he feels in his heart. “My prince.”

They kiss. Aziraphale and Crowley give a quick bow each. They leave the King and his partner to kiss as their paint dries. It’s slow and building, but completely loving. As time restarts, they stand and move together into their bedchamber.


	21. Maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG this one ended up being a beast to write. One more chapter, then we'll decide if we need a sequel. Enjoy!

The air shimmers around them with a haze of white and silver glitter. Crowley and Aziraphale tiptoe into the silent hall as the paint dries on Gabriel and Beelze’s arms. They feel that they’ve overstayed as the pair make eyes at one another. Crowley remembers that heady feeling and does not want to intrude any longer.

Aziraphale pauses and picks up the assorted pieces of his armor, which he left like a trail of breadcrumbs down the stairs. Crowley tightens the cinch on his dressing gown sash as they descend. The spell should end soon he knows, but he’s sad to leave this time without enjoying it the way he’d intended.

Plans must be put aside because Aziraphale’s stomach growls. The prince blushes and rubs his belly.

“It’s been a long night,” he admits, embarrassed.

“You’ve been in battle. I’m sure you’re ready to eat.” Crowley turns his destination to the kitchens and his prince shadows him.

“We should ring, oh, I suppose we can’t. I’ll just wait—“

“Nonsense, angel.” Crowley wanders into the kitchens and weaves through the frozen chefs. Shadwell lays facedown on a table, apparently taking a break from making notes on possible “weird cat names” that witches use. It seems like a strange use of time when one might be moments away from death in a war, but everyone needs a hobby. Who is the companion to judge?

He finds a tray and adds items to it. Cook has a pot of chicken noodle soup on the stove. It’s as hot as it was the moment the magic stopped time. He pours them each a cup. He finds fresh trenchers and taps one on the bottom to hear the hollow sound of a good bake. These with a slice of ham and wedge of cheddar join the soup.

“Choose some wine, would you?” he asks the prince as he saunters over to the pastry chef’s domain. There are half-finished chocolate biscuits and bowls of crème pâtissière. On a sideboard, waiting for dinner, are delicate little petit four cakes, each decorated with sugar violets. He chooses two and adds these to his spread. Crowley lifts the tray and exits the kitchens.

Aziraphale balances three bottles of wine, two glasses, a corkscrew, and his armor. “Shall we try our chambers?”

Crowley winces. “We’ll need to see how damaged they are.” This subdues Aziraphale, but he leads them in that direction anyway.

As they walk, the air takes on a new level of shimmer and Crowley instinctively knows that his sibling has taken the King to bed. In the same way, he knows they have joined the others: frozen. Right now, Aziraphale and he are the only two in the world.

Evidence of destruction increases as they approach the courtyard outside their rooms. Crowley frowns as he sees more and more rubble. He doesn’t remember this being as bad. He might have been slightly less aware of his surroundings than he’d thought. 

The prince seems to decide that chancing their chambers now is not worth the effort. Instead, Aziraphale targets one of the sitting areas that surrounds the bathing pool. He drops his armor into a heap in one chair, then dusts off the low table and sets the wine and glasses down. He shakes out the cushions and then relieves Crowley of the tray.

“This looks scrumptious,” he admits and sinks into the patio couch. He pats the seat next to him and looks at Crowley expectantly. The companion tucks the dressing gown around him tightly and sits next to his prince. He bends his legs under him, ensuring that the dressing gown tucks under his knees. Crowley selects one bottle and opens it to breathe.

As he does, Aziraphale claims a cup of soup and hands the other to Crowley. He tucks in immediately, giving pleasing hums and happy wiggles. Crowley spoons the broth and blows on each bite before swallowing it down. Aziraphale eats the soup with gusto. Crowley grabs the trencher and breaks it half in his hand. He offers the prince a section and he takes it gratefully.

“Terribly sorry for being a rude dinner companion—“

“Don’t be. War looks like it makes people hungry. Eat up.”

Crowley sets his soup down and pours them each a glass of too much wine. The prince finishes his soup and looks eagerly at the rest of the tray. Crowley offers him the rest of his own and Aziraphale takes it greedily.

“Thank you, dear boy.” The companion sips his wine and smiles in response.

They eat and drink in silence. Crowley selects a knife and cuts the ham. He spears a piece with his fork and offers it to the prince. Aziraphale smiles adoringly and accepts the meat. Crowley takes a few bites himself, but it completely enraptured by watching the prince eat. Ham, soup, cheese, and bread went in rapid succession.

Crowley tops off their wineglasses and leans against Aziraphale’s side. “Will you tell me about today?”

The prince immediately stiffens and fidgets with his wine glass. “I made some large mistakes today.” He admits. Crowley strokes the silk of his dressing-gown, smoothing the fabric over his bony knees.

Aziraphale continues, but his voice is quiet, “I broke our bond today.”

“What?” Crowley shouts, sitting up straight and sloshing wine all over his lap and the couch.

He faces Aziraphale, completely devastated. “Angel?” he asks, brokenly.

“My darling, I am so sorry. I should never have even put you into that situation. I am the ultimate hypocrite! I suggest the action and then deny you the right to do it and then abandon you when—“

“Wait! Wait! Angel, what are you saying?” Crowley yells, waving his hand about. There is only a little wine left in the cup, but it too spills.

Aziraphale reaches out and gently brushes his index finger along Crowley’s jaw. “I took you to the King and allowed him to lock you away.”

Crowley narrows his eyes. “Of course you did. You believe in the law.”

“Yes, but, my darling, I’ve betrayed you.”

“Angel,” he gives a low laugh, “are you telling me that you didn’t run off and get married or bonded to another companion?”

Aziraphale looks suitably scandalized. “What! How could you suggest such a thing! Of course, I haven’t, you silly snake!”

Crowley sags into the sofa and the prince’s paunch. “You haven’t broken any bond, my angel.” He sets the wine glass on the table and takes Aziraphale’s hand. He kisses each knuckle individually.

Aziraphale interrupts this with his sad reply. “But I turned on you. I said terrible things. I treated you so callously. Beelze believed that my dereliction of protecting you had broken our pledge.”

Crowley presses another kiss to the back of Aziraphale’s hand and then slides off the seat to crouch at the prince’s feet. He grabs Aziraphale’s boot and tugs it off. He yanks down his sock and then repeats this on the other side.

“You’re human, Aziraphale. We are both going to say and do things that hurt each other. When you do something that isn’t ‘right’ or ‘good’ to your code of ethics, I’ll be upset. You did the right thing, so I can forgive you. Beelze was just being overly protective again.”

Aziraphale looks as if he wants to argue. Crowley locks eyes with his partner and stands to his full, lanky height. He unties the sash of his dressing gown and lets the silk slip off his shoulders. Crowley feels it brush his calves as it drifts down to the floor.

Aziraphale is hypnotized and silent. When Crowley reaches out to take his hand, he just stares at it. Crowley looks at the prince seriously and wiggles his fingers at him.

“C’mon, angel, let me take care of you.” Aziraphale takes his hand and is pulled to his feet.

“You always take care of me,” the prince argues as Crowley pulls his woolen tunic over his head. Crowley chuckles, low in his throat, before he helps the prince step out of his leggings.

“I’m fairly certain that you just saved my life this afternoon,” the companion comments, leading them down the stairs into the pool of sun-heated water.

“I think that was the goddess,” Aziraphale insists but follows him.

This end of the pool is not deep. Crowley is tall to begin with, but the depth of water makes him feel giant. Aziraphale sinks into the water with a sigh and drops under the surface. When he rises again, his hair is slicked back against his head. Crowley drifts into the deeper water and he lowers into it. The ends of his hair float across the top of the pool.

“We take care of one another,” Crowley reminds him. “It’s not a transition. I want to care for you, angel.”

Aziraphale nods and looks pensive. His eyes drift around the devastation of the palace. Other portions of the castle are unharmed, but this side took direct hits. To shake himself out of his thought, the prince dives under the water and swims in long, wide strokes to the far wall. He emerges, takes another deep breath, and swims back toward the shallows. Crowley watches him, then shifts onto his back and floats. The water laps into his ears and the world seems far away. He blinks lazily and just focuses on each inhale and exhale.

Then Aziraphale is at his shoulder. He tucks his hand under Crowley’s head and pulls him closer. Crowley begins to let his feet down to the bottom of the pool, but Aziraphale pulls him into his arms. He holds him there, with his back supported and his knees held. He feels like a bride on their wedding night. He lets his muscles relax and the warm water splash over him.

“You never did tell me about today. I mean,” Crowley clears his throat, “about the war.”

Aziraphale looks away and then comes back to focus on Crowley’s face with a tight frown. “Do you really want to hear?”

Crowley drapes a loose arm around Aziraphale’s neck. “I’d like to know. I can live without knowing though.”

Aziraphale shuffles his feet, then sinks back in the water so that they both are more submerged. He looks up at the sky.

“Michael knew our plan, including the fortifications I added to the docks.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “Someone leaked the plans?”

“It seems that way. Which is fortunate because that is not what I had actually planned for the battle.”

A spark of admiration and pride lights in Crowley’s chest. “That’s my man,” he growls and sits up to kiss Aziraphale.

The prince laughs uncomfortably and sets Crowley on his feet in the water. The companion shifts his grip and wraps both arms around Aziraphale’s neck loosely.

“Well, yes,” he wiggles and splays his hand across Crowley’s back. “Michael attacked with her armada. We have nothing comparable to a large warship. She knew it. She also had higher-powered cannons.”

“It doesn’t matter that you were outgunned. You won. You’re smarter than her, obviously. You’re the most intelligent person I know.”

Aziraphale is pleased. “Thank you, my dear boy.”

Crowley shifts his weight in the water so that his feet float out behind him. Aziraphale smiles, amused but allows Crowley to use him as an anchor.

“We set up a diversion on the docks and the ramparts closest to the water. Our smaller craft circled around from the back and fired on the sterns. It was somewhat effective, but Michael also had small ships and those were faster than ours. They were taking us under.

“I decided to take two soldiers with me out onto the funeral pyre and we rowed out to one of Michael’s warships—“

“You what?” Crowley yells, his voice echoing all around them. He stands to his full height and grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You did _what_?”

Aziraphale gives him a petulant look. “There is no reason to be so upset, my dear. It’s done.”

Crowley shakes his head in disbelief. “You couldn’t find a boat? You used a pyre? And why did _you_ go? You’re the leader! You’re supposed to stay safe!”

He turns in an angry circle. The water keeps him from moving with the speed and anger he feels.

“I refuse to be one of those commanders who sends their troops into battle and drinks tea from my safe little bunker,” Aziraphale sniffs.

Crowley feels lightheaded and his breathing speeds up. His pulse jumps in his neck as he speaks quickly. “I’m not asking you to have tea. I am asking you to use proper equipment for battle and to send another person—“

Aziraphale grabs him by the wrist and tugs him back into the shallower water to him. “I was not thinking straight. I wasn’t sure that there was any reason to come back,” he admits, but in a manner that suggests that Crowley is being unreasonable.

“You’re the heir to the throne! _That’s_ a reason!” Crowley tries to catch his breath, but it eludes him. He pulls away from the prince and braces his arms above his head, trying to get more air into his lungs. His hands tremble.

“That’s duty! That wasn’t a reason! I thought you were going to the gallows, Crowley! What reason was left to come back to?” Aziraphale shouts, waving his arm around so that water rains down.

Crowley reaches for another breath and it’s not there. Aziraphale went on a suicide mission because of his actions. He could have died, all because Crowley did not ask for help or listen to reason. His trembling increases. His heart thuds in his chest and, while he knows it always beats, he is not used to feeling it so intensely.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks from somewhere outside his panic. “Darling? Crowley! Crowley, look at me.”

The prince takes his face into his hands. His face is lined with worry.

“Crowley, I need you to see and hear me. I am all right. You are all right. We are safe. We are together. Can you calm down for me? Can you take a deep breath?”

Somewhere in his haze of panic, Crowley notes that he’s having a panic attack. He hasn’t had one in years. Then again, today has been a day for firsts. In the past, he hasn’t murdered anyone and then nearly lead to the death of the man he loves. Such self-incriminating thoughts make his panic ratchet up, but Aziraphale tugs him against his chest and begins to sing. He has a warm baritone that rings out around the marble.

_“There once was a bonny lad,_

_Way up in the North,_

_With changing child eyes,_

_And a sweet bow of mouth._

_And I loved my bonny lad,_

_T’was always at his side,_

_Until the king took me off into the tide._

_So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_Away to the sea, I’ll come back again._

_‘Fore summer has broken, I’ll be back, my love._

_The battle it rages,_

_Way out on the sea,_

_And my sword it blazes,_

_With flames that we greet._

_But my heart is stolen,_

_T'is with you in your fields,_

_I long to hold you,_

_And give you my troth._

_So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_Away to the sea, I’ll come back again._

_‘Fore summer has broken, I’ll be back, my love.”_

Crowley clings like wet silk to the prince as he sings. He breathes with every downbeat of the music. Aziraphale’s arms hold him tightly.

“What happens next?” he asks, trying to reign in the sense of pressure on his chest.

Aziraphale guides them through the water into the shallows. There, he sits on the steps and tugs Crowley into his lap. The companion’s legs feel like jelly.

“It gets rather sad, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale admits, rubbing his hand down Crowley’s back.

“It’s a folk song. They always end miserably. Sing it anyway?”

_"So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,_

_Away to the sea, I’ll come back again._

_‘Fore summer has broken, I’ll be back, my love._

_When the harvest was brought in,_

_And the lambs all been reared,_

_Cold sickness, it took him,_

_My bonny, sweet lad._

_He’s under the willow,_

_And there shall we meet:_

_The grave is our marriage,_

_And death is our bed.”_

Crowley drops his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I did warn you,” Aziraphale says, lovingly.

“Why did I have to die in the song?”

Aziraphale turns so that he can make eye contact. “You didn’t. But since we’re discussing that, you realize that you’ve tried to die twice in these past days?”

Crowley should have expected that. Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead before he continues.

“I suppose it reminds me of you, my dear, not just for that.”

Crowley’s shaking is subdued but has left him weak. “The eyes, no doubt,” he comments. “And the point of view of a solider?”

“There is something ethereal about your eyes, for certain, my love,” Aziraphale admits. “I do wish I would never have to leave you again for battle. I cannot promise such a thing though.”

Crowley nods without raising his head. “Once you were on the pyre,” he takes a steadying breath, “what happened?”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

Crowley swallows. “I need to.”

“If it gets to be too much again—“

“It won’t. I just need you to be less caviler with your own safely,” Crowley admits.

“In the future, I will keep that in mind. However, you best practice as you preach, my daring.” He stands and helps Crowley to his feet. Before Crowley can protest, Aziraphale lifts him out of the water and carries over to the sofa. He lays his consort down on the sofa.

“We used the pyre like a boat. We floated out to a warship and climbed up the rigging… then we set the pyre on fire. It smoked heavily onto the main deck. When we came out of the smoke, we spooked the soldiers and they surrendered thinking we were ghosts. From there, we turned the guns on the smaller ships and captured the other warships with their own guns.”

Aziraphale settles onto the sofa and leans over Crowley. He brackets his hips, one with his hand and the other with his own side. Crowley scoots onto the cushions and lets the prince settle further.

“We took most of them prisoner. We lost less life today than I expected.” With the hand that is not bracing himself, he uses the other to brush down Crowley’s bare chest. “I only cared about one though. I only wanted you to be alive. When I saw the tower collapse,” his voice drifts off and he leans down and presses a kiss to the bow of Crowley’s ribs.

Crowley reaches up and cups Aziraphale’s skull. He rubs his thumb in slow circles through the prince’s hair. His hands still feel shaky. “Béḃinn has protected us both.”

“Thank the gods that she has. I thank her that you’re here with me,” Aziraphale whispers as he presses another kiss higher on Crowley’s ribs. He works his way up the companion’s chest, kiss-after-kiss. Crowley can feel his heart hammering for a new reason.

Suddenly, he wants Aziraphale, badly. Crowley groans loudly and his hips buck up without his permission.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise and he blows cool air across Crowley’s wet skin. “Let me touch you, my darling boy. Let me see that you’re here with me.” His voice is pleading but hot with want.

Crowley cannot hiss out his agreement fast enough. The moment he is able to say “yes” Aziraphale pounces. He climbs onto the couch and throws a leg over Crowley’s hip. He works his mouth over Crowley’s neck and chest. His hands rove up the companion’s arms and shoulders. He presses Crowley down into the cushions as he sucks kisses onto his skin.

Crowley feels himself hovering somewhere outside himself. The shimmering in the air vibrates with the same heat that Crowley feels in his limbs. His cock stands, hard and hot, and brushes against the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh. They both groan deliciously.

“My darling,” Aziraphale rumbles, “Crowley, are you mine? May I keep you safe?”

Crowley jerks upward and shoves Aziraphale onto the seat. He then crawls into his lap and lets his legs drop overtop the prince’s. He’s damp from the pool, but it will be a dry start. He decides it’s worth any pain and grasps Aziraphale’s cock. He lines the prince up as Aziraphale gasps from his touch. At first, his rim is too tight, but he simply thinks about allowing the prince into him and he lets his weight sink down, ignoring the burn.

“Aziraphale,” he replies, like a prayer, “I am yours in any and every way.”

Aziraphale is panting out Crowley’s name. He tugs them both backward onto the couch and lets his knees drop open. He pulls Crowley’s legs apart so that the companion can plant his feet on the edge of the couch. They lay back, back to chest, with Aziraphale’s hands bracing Crowley’s hips.

He guides Crowley’s pace up and down his cock. Crowley’s legs are still wobbly, so he takes one of the prince’s hand and slides it under his thighs for support. Aziraphale seems to get the hint and braces the companion’s weight. In response, the consort rolls his hips as he shimmies back down.

The air around them is hot, as they kiss over Crowley’s shoulder. They bump noses. They break the kiss and begin another, but they’re never enough. They continue to share breath as they fuck slowly. Crowley palms his cock with one hand and pinches his own nipple with the other.

“Oh, that’s quite a sight,” Aziraphale comments breathlessly. “Someday, I’d like to see you just do that. Would you do that for me, my darling, Crowley? Put on a show for me?”

Crowley chuckles, dark and deep. “I would do that for you every night, angel.”

It seems to stir something in Aziraphale because he gives a choppy thrust up into Crowley. It drives the air out of the companion’s lungs and he grunts with pleasure. The shimmering in the air seems to contract around them and Crowley knows that their time outside of time is ending.

He’s not surprised to find that he’s close to completion himself. Béḃinn likes to tie things up neatly, it seems. He can feel heat pooling at the base of his spine. His toes curl and his spine stiffens.

“Yes, my darling. Just like that,” Aziraphale urges and Crowley comes on command.

Before he’s done spilling, Aziraphale flips them over. Crowley is smushed into the cushions as Aziraphale drives into him from behind. The prince stands flat-footed on the floor with his hand braced on the back of the sofa and the other holding Crowley’s face into the back of the couch. It’s such a passionate move that Crowley groans loudly and his hips buck up without his permission. He’s already spent, but he can feel aftershocks pulsing through him like lightning with each of Aziraphale’s thrusts. His tired cock rubs the fabric of the sofa and drags another whimper from him.

“Oh my boy,” Aziraphale rasps and presses his mouth to Crowley’s shoulder where a tattooed serpent winds. “I love you,” he mouths over this skin, before biting down as he comes. Crowley arches his back in pleasure and overstimulation.

Aziraphale pulls out with a hiss and then sinks back into the couch. Crowley sits back on his knees and gives a purr of satisfaction. “You know, if you lined up everybody in the whole world and asked them to describe my life from my childhood to now, nobody, at all, would say I was destined to fall in love with a prince.”

The prince gives him a tender, but amused smile. “Oh? Do you see yourself as the mysterious maiden who loses a shoe? Ye Xian perhaps?”

Crowley chuckles and struggles to stand. “Mmm, well I am certainly no maid.” He waggles his eyebrows. “But I got a prince to dance with me at his party and then he chased after an entire fleet of ships to avenge me. Having girls try on Cinderella’s shoe isn’t really in the same category.” He offers his hand to Aziraphale. He takes it and allows Crowley to tug him to his feet.

“C’mon, angel, let’s go to bed.”

As soon as Crowley says these words, time restarts like a snap. The return of ambient noise, such as the wind and waves is startling after such prolonged silence. They share a look and then a short kiss.

Aziraphale grabs the two remaining bottles of wine, glasses, and delicate cakes before he allows Crowley to drag him into their chambers. It’s a shock, however, when they enter the rooms. Aziraphale’s bedroom is mostly destroyed. The exterior wall is collapsed in and a breeze rustles through the pages of the strewn about books.

“Oh, angel, I’m so sorry,” Crowley laments.

“It’s done.” Aziraphale seems to be convincing himself too. “We’ll look at it in the morning and salvage what we can.”

Crowley reads his face and nearly lets him go start now, as he clearly wants to do. However, he’s also nearly stumbling from exhaustion. Their lovemaking has taken the last of his energy away.

The shock of the damage must also contribute. Their main sitting area is also surprising. A portion of the roof and the balcony are gone. Rubble lines one whole section of the wall. They have a clear enough pathway to their marriage bed and Crowley guides Aziraphale there. The balcony here is cracked and portions of the handrail are missing, but, overall, the room is intact.

“Into bed, angel,” Crowley demands, taking the armload of wine and food and placing it on the bedside table. Then he pulls himself under the mosquito netting and holds out his hand for the prince.

Aziraphale moves stiffly like he’s suddenly remembered all the day’s events. “Let me hold you?” he asks, very quietly.

Crowley pulls back the duvet and lays down. “Sure.” But his tone changes with Aziraphale tugs him against his chest and settles into the pillows. “I love you.”

The prince kisses his sigil and rubs his nose into his hairline. “And I you.”

The room smells like smoke, dust, and gunpowder. Crowley tunes all this out and listens to the dual harmony of Aziraphale’s breathing and the waves. He focuses only on the smell of olive oil and their combined exertions. Aziraphale holds him as if he’s afraid that he’ll escape, but, in time, he falls asleep.

Crowley reaches out of the insect netting for the open wine. He drinks straight from the bottle, tipping it up by the neck without disturbing the prince. He feels like he’s buzzing. Once Aziraphale is snoring and the bottle is empty, Crowley can no longer hold still.

He slips out of the bed and finds some sleep pants. Once covered, he meanders over to Aziraphale’s private room. He steps, barefoot, over broken stone and furniture. Six books block his way, so he picks them up and stacks them in the ensuite, which appears undamaged. Suddenly, he has a task. He digs through the rubble and finds book after book. He travels from the debris to the new, makeshift library. The wine dances on his empty stomach and makes these looped trips dizzying. It’s a pleasant, tipsy feeling. He giggles.

Some of the pieces of stone are too heavy to move outright, so he uses the broken leg from Aziraphale’s desk to lever them off the texts. He gets fairly competent and only smashes his fingers four or five times. Unfortunately, some of the bookshelves have fallen down into the sea and the only evidence that they were once there are fluttering pages on the cliffs below. Crowley contemplates three books that sit on the very edge of the precipitous. He might be too drunk to try to reach them. Then again, he _is_ very light on his feet.

Crowley picks his way toward the edge where there once was a floor. He delicately steps over a piece of roof and pauses to bite his lip and contemplate the best place to next step. The wall has caved in here, making the entire floor and ceiling tilt down. He could step onto the edge of this and then lean over? Oh! His wine-drunk brain supplies that he could lay down and stretch over to the first book! His arms are long and he’s able to bend in a number of interesting ways. It’ll be great!

He begins to take a light step forward when Aziraphale grabs him around the waist and yanks him backward.

“Crowley! What are you doing?” he yells, dragging the companion to practically the exact opposite edge of the room.

“Books! It’s like a little demonic miracle of my own!” he calls, delighted. Hmm, he might be more drunk than he thought he was.

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide as he squeezes Crowley tighter. “You could have fallen—wait? What? My books? You saved my books?”

Crowley grins and drags Aziraphale to the ensuite to show off his work. He throws his arm out in a “ta-da!” moment, but drunkenly over-emphasizes this movement. His arm slaps the doorway and he would have toppled over if the prince didn’t already have a hold on his middle.

Aziraphale gives him an amused look before staring into the bath—books are stacked on every surface and in the bathtub. He takes them all in and then looks at Crowley enamored.

“Oh my darling,” he praises. “Thank you.”

Crowley preens. “Of course.”

Aziraphale's face immediately morphs into concern. “Crowley, your hands. And your beautiful feet!”

Sloppily, Crowley examines his hands. They’re scraped and swollen. His feet are bruised and might be bleeding. How did he miss feeling all that?

The prince tugs him through the rubble and back through their bedroom and into Crowley’s ensuite. He helps him sit on the counter and scoops warm water from the cistern using Crowley’s black soapstone pitcher. He pours it into the basin and then shoves Crowley’s sleep pants up over his knees. Then he forces Crowley to turn and soak his feet in it.

As he dampens a flannel with this water, he speaks. “Thank you, my love. That was foolish, but nice.” He wipes Crowley’s face and removes a layer of brick dust.

“I’m not nice,” Crowley growls, trying to salvage some part of his dignity.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale admits as he tends to the cuts on his consort’s hands.

Crowley lets himself drift with a lovingly smile at Aziraphale. While the prince sees to his feet, he lets his eyes roam over the prince’s naked shoulders, arms, and chest.

“I would like to make you smile like that every day,” he admits, soppily.

Aziraphale looks up at him with an equally emotional expression. “Crowley, my darling, you do.”

They’re interrupted by a knock at the servant’s entrance. Aziraphale grabs a towel and knots it around his waist.

“Come!” he calls.

A servant enters holding a garment bag. He bows quickly and hangs this on the door to Crowley’s wardrobe.

“The tailor dropped this off, Master Crowley.”

It drags the haze of alcoholic bliss away from him. Ah. Yes. War or not, the funeral for a Queen must go ahead. He wonders if the clerics know that Aziraphale used the pyre as a warship. He slips off the counter.

“Thank you,” the prince says.

“Could you help me look for Prince Aziraphale’s mourning garments?” Crowley asks.

“Oh! I have them here, sir!” the servant exclaims and steps back into the hall to bring them in. “They were in the laundry. I was going to take them into the prince’s chambers.”

Aziraphale nods in thanks. “My chambers have been destroyed, so please bring my things here in the future.”

The servant’s eyes widen in alarm at the mention of the destruction. He mumbles something and bows low before he rushes out. Once alone again, they watch each other. Time has restarted and the world is waiting for them. Selfishly, Crowley wishes he could lock the doors and keep them here together.

Aziraphale is already dressing. Crowley sighs and pulls new mourning robes from their garment bag. The trousers slide over his companion-standard red lacy panties. The tunic is cream like Aziraphale’s family crest and the robe falls long over his waist and buttons in two rows up the front. He turns to see Aziraphale fumbling with his purple ascot. Crowley steps over and takes control of tying it.

“Bow or puff?” he asks, guessing that the prince will like the fancier options.

“Puff, if you would, dear boy,” Aziraphale requests.

“Do you have a tie pin?” he asks, once the fabric is looped and knotted.

Aziraphale looks over Crowley’s shoulder toward his room. “I do.”

Crowley nods as the prince exits to hunt through the damage to find his jewelry box. He follows Aziraphale out into the sitting room to find the pile of his shopping from earlier. They’re dusty from the fallen ceiling, but otherwise, unscathed. He collects all the items and takes them to his desk.

One of these is the purple mourning chalk. He sets this aside. He’ll need to bring it up to his sibling later. Of course, he has some other things to take to them. Beelze had been in their own world while they were shopping, so they do not know about some of his purchases. He sets the little pouches with their new jewelry aside, along with his pillowcase embroidery project. There, at the bottom of the pile are the new mourning veils. He chooses one and shakes the dust from it. With these is a paper-wrapped package. He pulls the twine free and folds the paper off.

Aziraphale reenters and holds up two separate pins for Crowley to select. “What do you think? Angel wings or the family crest?”

Crowley turns, holding one of the items from the package. “Crest. Although I like that,” he says as he points at the wings.

Aziraphale’s eyes track the fabric dangling from Crowley’s hand. “What’s that, my darling?”

Crowley smiles secretly and slides the fabric over his head and one arm, then onto the opposite shoulder. The cream sash stands out brightly against his mourning robe. Neatly embroidered on his chest is the royal seal, but below that is their personal intertwined sigils. Aziraphale smiles widely.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he whispers. “It’s lovely.”

Crowley pulls out the gold snake pin that he wore to Aziraphale’s birthday gala and pins the ends of the sash together. Thus dressed, he grabs the chalk box and heads for the mirror.

Today’s paint will have no choice: it’s all mourning. First, the double arches of white and silver that signify his devotion to Béḃinn. Then at its center, he recreates his serpent sigil in the mourning purple. The same color is applied across his eyelids and down to his cheekbones in long, slender vertical lines. Strangely, these match up with his irises. His eye looks divided. Another similar line vertically divides his mouth from cupid’s bow to Adam’s apple. He adds two perfect circles to each ear lobe, much like earrings, and then paints the palms of his swollen hands purple.

Aziraphale leans in the doorway, watching this. Crowley waves his hands to dry them.

“Could you grab the purple chalk and Beelze’s veil and sash?” Then, having seen the headscarf, Crowley curses. “Fuck, I did my paint first.”

“Never to fear,” Aziraphale assures and lifts the dusted-off veil. “Come here, my love.”

The prince settles the veil across the center of Crowley’s head and then smoothes the fabric across his hair. He twists and folds it around the companion’s chin and shoulders.

“Check it? Did I do it correctly?” Crowley smiles at Aziraphale’s concern but does not check it.

“It’s perfect, angel.”

And then they slide their feet into sandals and trek through the darkening courtyard to the King’s chambers. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s arm in his.

“This is the longest day of my existence,” he jokes.

Crowley nods. “Just lean on me, love, I’ll get you through.”

And he does not ignore the beaming smile that the prince directs his way.

People mob them as they enter the court’s sitting area. They suffer bows and mixed exclamations of congratulations for the battle and sorrow for the Queen. Crowley frowns. If they do not get through these idiots, they’ll be late helping Beelze and the clerics will be angry.

“Move. We are expected by the King,” he demands, shortly. Courtesans all glare at him, some still trying to simper at Aziraphale. Annoyed, Crowley sweeps through them, using his height to clear a path. He drags his prince along with him.

The guards open the doors with a slight bow to them both and Crowley continues his charge through their receiving room and into their private study. Aziraphale firmly shuts the door behind them.

“Beelze! I’ve got the chalk!” Crowley shouts.

His sibling rushes out, robe unbuttoned, but otherwise dressed. “About time, you idiot! Hasn’t today been enough without you being late?”

Aziraphale offers Beelze the chalk. They grin sheepishly at him, then take the bundled offerings.

“What’s this?” they ask, as they turn the veil over and see the sash. Their eyes widen when they take in the seals. “Gabe will like this.”

Crowley makes sure his grin is all teeth. “I know. Angel here almost took me back to bed over mine.”

Aziraphale blushes faintly but shrugs with equal amusement. “I’m proud that you’re my partner. I’m glad to see you have a similar feeling.”

Something warm blooms in Crowley’s chest and he leans over to kiss the prince. Aziraphale reaches up and stops his mouth with his fingers.

“My darling, we’ve wearing our mourning garments.”

Crowley frowns deeply. It’s begun. He’d forgotten. “Forgive me, my prince.” Crowley covers his eyes with one hand, touches his sigil with the other, and bows low—the traditional bow of the _oiran_ in mourning chalk.

“None of that. I’d forgotten myself too.” Aziraphale clucks Crowley under the chin and bids him stand.

Beelze drifts away from them, finding a looking glass to apply their chalk. As they do, Gabriel exits the bedchamber. Crowley administers the same bow to him and he hears the King sigh.

“I thought I gave an order to put this funeral off by a night?” he admits, frustrated.

Aziraphale offers his hand to shake and bows over it when the King does. “Brother, I’m not sure anyone delivered the message, in light of the attack.”

The two continue to speak, so Crowley offers to help Beelze. They are painting delicate purple flies on their forehead. He picks up their veil and pins it to their hair.

“I like sashes, honestly,” Beelze comments, catching his eye in the mirror. “Good idea.”

“All Aziraphale,” he admits, turning his attention to his own headscarf. It’s not quite centered, so he quickly fixes it while Beelze paints their eyelids, lips, ear lobes, and hands purple.

Gabriel clears his throat and everyone turns to him. He lifts a flint and strikes it, then uses it to spark a light onto a candlewick. This candle he adds to the altar on the fireplace. Then, he hands each of the other three a stick of incense.

He kneels and the others follow.

“Béḃinn, our lady, thank you for delivering us safely. Thank you for protecting our land and giving us peace with those we love. We bond our house and time to you, as we start a new reign.”

Gabriel stands and lights his incense from the candle and lays it in a bowl on the altar. This is new for Crowley. He glances at Beelze, but they’re watching Aziraphale do as his brother did. He also reaches into his pocket and lays a something on the altar with his stick.

Companions worship their goddess with their craft. Every dance, every song, and every erotic act is devoted to her. They are, in essence, the sacrifice of their order. They do not leave things for her on the altar, although they do bow before her there. Beelze kisses their fingers and touches this to their sigil. Crowley does the same, but neither of them add their incense to the altar.Gabriel raises an eyebrow at them both when they rise from their knees.

“Do you want something else as an offering?” he asks, trying for level, but his voice sounds concerned.

Beelze smiles and it's gentle. “I gave my offering to Béḃinn on the day I completed my initiation.”

Aziraphale moves closer, his eyes locked in interest. “Initiation?”

“We train for years with our mentor,” Crowley says with a nod to Beelze. “They teach us everything. Then, when we’re ready, we go to the temple and dedicate ourselves to our goddess.”

Something knowing crosses Aziraphale’s face. “How does an _oiran_ dedicate oneself?”

Beelze shrugs like it’s not a big deal as they say, “You have sex on the altar with your older sibling.”

“Before everyone in your House and any other initiates and their Houses. There’s some serious performance anxiety, trust me,” Crowley jokes. He tries to lighten the moment, as he can see both the King and prince look sick.

“Please tell me you knew that I’ve slept with my little brother?” Beelze asks, their voice oddly squeaky. When Crowley sees both faces staring at him, he winces.

“Would now be the time to admit that when our siblings teach us ‘everything’, that includes the intimate arts?” Crowley asks, drawing out the word “everything” dramatically.

Beelze clears their throat and plows on, “Anyway, we are the offering. I don’t know how Béḃinn would feel about us adding anything to an offering plate. I mean, we can light candles, of course, when we need a serious prayer—“

Gabriel interrupts. It makes Crowley’s blood run cold. “I am really having a bad day, Bee, sweetheart. So bear with me. I may have misunderstood. Could you just confirm for me that you call Crowley your brother. And you’ve slept with him. But he’s not, you know, actually—“

Beelze laughs. “No! Gods no! We’re not related by blood.”

Some color returns to the King’s face. “Right, just. Right. Okay.”

Crowley wants to rub his face, but knows it will smear the chalk. Instead, he fidgets with the edge of his headscarf. He wishes he had his sunglasses.

“If it helps,” Beelze continues, humor still laced in their voice, “you’re way better in bed than Crowley.”

Crowley glares at them. “You just _want_ to sleep with him.”

Beelze sticks their tongue out at them, but before Crowley can reply with something equally juvenile, a cleric knocks on the door.

“Your Majesty, it is time for the dedication of the torches and of the pallbearers,” she announces.

Crowley waits. He and Beelze are the lowest ranking of the Household, but following this funeral rite, Gabriel will be crowned king and Beelze his Prince Consort. Crowley will be in a league alone.

The King offers his arm to his brother and they lead them out. Beelze and Crowley take hands and follow like shadows to their patrons. As soon as they enter the room, the lead priest of Dagda waits for them. He holds four leis of orange marigolds.

“The King of the gods greets you in this time of sadness, princes and sons of the Queen. May you find peace and comfort in your lamentations.” He then hangs a lei around Gabriel’s neck, then Aziraphale’s. The priest turns to the consorts.

“May you, companions of the royal family,” at this slight, both of them wince, “bring comfort.” He offers no more, just hands them the leis. He was the Queen’s priest, and, as such, Crowley assumes that he held her opinions about _oiran_. No matter. He loops the lei around his own head and sees Beelze do the same.

The priestess of Morrigan approaches next. She carries thin wreaths of black raven feathers and myrtle. “We are victorious in battle and Morrigan offers her celebrations for this achievement. She knows that the Queen is pleased with this, even in the afterlife.” And she sets the wreaths onto each of their heads, starting with Gabriel and following their rank in the household.

The pair of clerics for the god of the underworld Arawn bows to them next. One carries an iron bowl and the other a stag’s horn.

“Arawn welcomes the Queen to his afterlife court and to his bounty.” With that, the first cleric holds the bowl forward and the second cleric dips the stag’s horn into it. The horn drips wine and the cleric sprinkles it onto the King’s face and head. They repeat this over each of the other four. It make some of Beelze’s chalk run.

“And now!” the priest of Dagda commands holding out his hands, “We must bless the torchbearers!”

Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale are shoved forward by some unknown courtesan. They’re dressed in long lavender tunics with bright white mantles over their shoulders. They look decidedly uncomfortable. Crowley wonders if they were volunteered for this position or if they offered themselves willingly. He also wonders if anyone told them what is expected of them.

Adam appears to be trying to be brave. He stands up straighter and steps in front of the other three. The priest seems obvious and he drops a lei over Adam’s head. He repeats this over the other three. Then the clerics of Arawn light a bundle of sage and juniper add this to a saining copper bowl. The smoke fills the room, then the clerics lead the children to walk through it. As they exit the sitting room, each is given a lantern.

The priests and clerics follow the children, then the King, Aziraphale, and the two consorts join the queue. The court waits in rows which they walk through like a hall. Once Crowley and Beelze walk past, they fill in like water. The procession is silent.

Beelze twines their fingers together and Crowley squeezes back. They walk through the throne room, out to the courtyard, and to the crypt. The children stop outside the doors and hold up their lanterns. The priests and clerics stop even further back. Gabriel smiles sadly to each of them and leads Aziraphale, Beelze, and Crowley down the steps into the crypt. Everyone else stays above ground.

Crowley feels a bit of panic blooming. He nearly died here. Beelze nearly died here. The list of place where this has almost happened at the palace is getting longer. Aziraphale must think something similar, for he pauses on the step and turns to look back at him.

“All right, my love?” he asks, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Crowley smiles in a way that he hopes is reassuring and nods.

At the bottom of the steps, four clerics wait for them. Each holds a pallbearing staff. They hand one of these to each of them. Gabriel approaches the stone slab where the coffin sits. Crowley stand back, holding his staff, and watches the King and Aziraphale.

Each of them give a bow to the Queen’s body. The stone slab is dressed in purple satin. The body has been wrapped tightly in red linen and adorned with marigolds. It is placed in an open box, which is equally as decorated. The clerics bow and exit the crypt.

Once they’re gone, the crypt is bathed in bright light and the smell of honeysuckle. Without looking, Crowley knows who is there and that she has stopped time. Both he and Beelze hit their knees. Aziraphale and Gabriel are not slow to follow.

Béḃinn stands beside the stone slab, her eyes smiling. She wears a gossamer gown that floats down from her arms in long sleeves. She looks at each of them in turn before gliding over to Gabriel. Crowley remembers the feeling of joy when she’d turned her full attention on him. He sees the same amazement in the King’s face.

_Sweet little king, welcome to my service._

She reaches out and takes his chin. He looks amazed, then she kisses him. Beelze giggles and Crowley joins in. Béḃinn gives them each a look when she pulls away from Gabriel’s mouth.

_Hush, pets._ She turns back to the King. _I have promised my little fly your child._

Gabriel’s mouth falls open. “A child? We’re going to have a child?” He looks away from the goddess to his consort. Amazement is etched in his face. He looks back to Béḃinn with absolute delight. “A child,” he whispers in awe.

_I have promised my Beelze. I always keep my promises. Of course, I can promise you more? A line of succession? I can make you a virile king._

The king stares at Béḃinn then turns slowly to face Beelze. “That’s up to them. I will not lord over their body.”

It’s the right thing to say and Crowley breaks into a grin. Beelze leaps up and runs to Gabriel. They loop their arms and legs around him. They prepare to kiss him passionately and then remember that they’re wearing mourning garments. Instead, they tuck their head under his chin. Crowley chuckles and Béḃinn turns her eyes on him.

_I’m proud of you, my little serpent. We’ll talk soon._

Crowley ducks his head. “Thank you, my Lady.”

_I am here to bless your reign, little king._ Gabriel bows his head, and Beelze ducks theirs too. Béḃinn lays both her hands on his head, curling the raven feather wreath under her fingers. _May your land be bountiful in peace, love, and plenty. May your people call these golden years of justice and tranquility. May your marriage bed be a place of bountiful love and reconciliation. May your children be strong, wise, and kind. May the future generations know your name and know you served me._

Gabriel ducks his head lower and lays his hands on her bare feet. Béḃinn reaches into her deep sleeve and pulls out a long string of pearls. They glimmer in the same iridescence as her gown. She loops them around his neck and they slither up to loop into his robe like an honor cord. She smiles knowingly, then brushes her hand across the royal crest that is sewn on the King’s lapel. The thread rearranges itself. Gabriel studies it and then smiles with pure joy.

“Precisely,” he whispers and Béḃinn grins knowingly. She then transfers her hands to Beelze’s head.

_You are the helpmate to the king. May your counsel be wise and true, may you never give advice in anger. May you see long and fruitful years in my service and to the king. I will be with you for every moment in your groaning chair and shall ask you to teach all of your children to dance for me._

“It will be so, with much joy in my steps,” Beelze agrees, as the goddess bends down and kisses them fully on the mouth. Once finished, Beelze gives another joyful giggle. Béḃinn reaches into their sleeve again and retrieves another long strand of pearls. Like Gabriel’s they loop around the back of Beelze’s neck and twist into their lapels. The light hits them and it’s apparent that these are slightly different than the Kings—they have beautiful gold Celtic knots every third pearl. As these settle over their robe, the embroidery on their sash bends and twists into something new.

Crowley crawls forward to sit at Aziraphale’s side. The prince is absolutely fascinated. He watches every move that Béḃinn makes, absolutely enthralled. Béḃinn stands before them, but Crowley could not say how she arrived. He just bends forward and touches the hem of her dress. He brings it forward to his mouth and kisses the fabric. Béḃinn touches his head lightly but is focused on Aziraphale.

_So you are Crowley’s angel._ Béḃinn is amused and her tone has a happy note to it. Aziraphale looks somewhere between delighted and concerned. Béḃinn bends forward and kisses him, slowly and deliberately. _And so it, little angel,_ she says as she breaks the kiss _, for you are the duality of the gods: the warrior for good. The scholar and the soldier._

Aziraphale looks pained. “So I’ll never get to hang up my sword?”

_Such a time comes, little angel, but not in a rush. Before your retirement, you will be the guidance and the brawn for your brother the king. Peace shall enter these lands, but you shall be instrumental in their arrival. May you be true._

She loops a strand of pearls around him and lays one of her hands on Crowley’s head so that they are blessed together. _I have brought you a helpmate—your twin flame, whom I matched with my own hand. I promise that any endeavor you complete together shall flourish with my blessing. May your friendship never falter, and may you forgive any injury to one another. May you only challenge each other to be stronger. Serve the king in guidance and by your swords and dance for me in love, little serpent._

The strand of pearls she hangs on Crowley's neck is also different. The pearls are a mix of colors—shimmery black and coppery red mix with the opalescent whites. _I have had many_ oirans _, my Crowley, but none who have come to me for guidance as you have. Even my priestesses are limited in their requests. You are and shall be my knight._

Béḃinn’s kiss is different this time. There had been pure joy and healing before—now there is power. He feels it fill him up and hears Aziraphale gasp as if he’s experiencing the same thing. She nips his lower lip as she pulls away, her eyes dark with knowledge of the universe. Crowley feels like a star. He could explode at any moment.

_What will you ask of me, my little serpent?_ she queries. _Ask it. I will never deny you while you are faithful._

Crowley stares into her limitless eyes and knows she would do anything he requested from turning back time to striking down his hateful parents.

“You’ll keep Beelze and their children safe in childbirth?”

_Oh my silly snake, you really are terrible at asking for gifts. I have already promised my little fly to be with them. I would not hurt my lovely pet or their babies. Now, ask for something for you. Selfish, little serpent, like the hour you wanted._

Crowley can’t think of a single thing. They’re all alive and safe. He looks over at Aziraphale and he remembers his devastations when he saw the state of his library.

“Restore the castle and its items. Save Aziraphale’s books.”

Béḃinn groans. _Something for you, Crowley._

Aziraphale snuggles closer and tugs his arm around the companion’s waist. “May I suggest something for him?”

_It had better be something very selfish for him, then little angel._

“Give him land and a title. Someplace we can go and he can be free to farm or draw without worrying about other’s opinions. Somewhere with a harvest each year.” Crowley stares at Aziraphale in wonder.

“I was going to do that,” Gabriel comments. He reaches into his robe and holds out a parchment. “Literally, I’m going to knight Crowley once the coronation is finished.”

Beelze kisses him then, mourning garments be damned. Béḃinn laughs like a bird singing in the night and they all hold their breath to better hear it.

_Will that do, little prince?_ Béḃinn asks, then leans down to kiss Crowley on the mouth again. _I will wait until you dream tonight, little snake, but you will have an answer for me then. I will demand it._

They touch the sash on his chest and the fabric shimmers as the threads rearrange themselves into a new crest. Crowley stares at it. The former queen had crossed a flaming sword and a spear then covered it with two angels standing back-to-back. One held the drum of war and the other the pitcher of duty and service.

Now the royal crest shifted to mark the new leadership. The flaming sword crosses with a quill. Flying insects and a serpent decorated a winged shield with a Celtic knot. A crown encircles the top of the shield and the crossed quill and sword. Béḃinn is pleased. She sweeps her gaze across all four and blesses them in closing.

_Carry the queen to her pyre and welcome the new age of King Gabriel the First. Be true._ And she is gone.

The world restarts and they each look to one another. Beelze rises first and lifts their pallbearer staff.

“C’mon, boys,” they jest, “we’ve been visited by a goddess and that is awe-inspiring, but we have work to do. No time for twiddling our thumbs.” The other three stand with chuckles and take their places.

They each stand on one of the corners of the slab and fit their staff into the metal rings under the Queen’s coffin. The remove their feather wreaths and marigold leis, then slide them onto the poles.

“And so shall we go,” Gabriel announces and they lift.

They carry the coffin up the stairs and out in the courtyard. It's awkward and heavy, but they manage with only the occasional curse, grunt, or knowing look at one another. The court is all there. The children holding the lanterns lead the processional down to the beach. All along the walkway, marigold petals scatter.

Crowley’s feet stumble in the sand, but the others do not seem to notice. Citizens of the city all flood the beach. Some hold candles. They all bow as the royal household passes, carrying the late queen.

The pyre is hastily constructed, using some of the lumber from the ships lost in battle. It is not as well-made as the one that Aziraphale used as a rowboat. It doesn’t really matter, Crowley thinks. It’ll burn no matter what. They carry the coffin out into the waves. Crowley’s trousers and robe become heavy with water up over his knees. They lift the coffin onto the bobbing pyre and step away.

The priest of Dagda approaches and takes the lantern from Adam. “Go now from this life,” he blesses and uses the lantern to light the staff that Aziraphale carried. Aziraphale steps back onto the shore.

The priestess of Morrigan approaches Beelze’s staff and using Pepper’s lantern, lights it. “Go now into your rest.” Beelze joins Aziraphale on the shore.

Arawn’s clerics move as one to take Wensleydale’s lantern. They light Crowley’s staff. He moves to join the others on the sand. “Welcome to the afterlife.”

Gabriel takes the last lantern from Brian and lights the staff he carried and then lights the pyre in four places. “And so ends the reign of my mother the Queen.”

Someone out in a distant boat pulls on a rope. As the rope goes taut, it rises out of the water and drips into the waves. The pyre moves slowly out from the shore. It bobs and dips with the waves and drifts deeper into the bay. The flames grow. When it reaches the boat, they drop an anchor and row back to shore.

Gabriel joins all those on the sand. Everyone stands silent and watches the pyre burn. The waves lap at Crowley’s toes and he reaches out to take Aziraphale’s hand.

In the center of the pyre, the coffin begins to burn. When the priests decide it is engulfed enough, they step forward.

“The Queen is gone,” the priest of Dagda announces. “Prince Gabriel, come forward.”

And the priests walk into the knee-deep, dark water. Gabriel follows them and kneels in the surf. The priest of Dagda hands him a scepter—the very one that Aziraphale had used to battle Lord Sable.

“Rule with justice,” the priest states.

The priestess of Morrigan hands him the orb that Crowley once threw at a guard’s head. “Rule with wisdom,” she says.

The clerics of Arawn place the crown on Gabriel’s head. “All hail, King Gabriel!”

The crowd shouts this back and all bow low as Gabriel rises from the waves. Aziraphale sinks to one knee, so Crowley and Beelze follow suit with one hand over their eyes and the other at their sigil. Gabriel ignores all this and waves to Adam, who brings forth a jewel box.

“Beelze,” he calls, gently. They rise only to walk to him and sink down to their knees at his feet. “Many shall be honored in Our court, but none so highly as you, my love. From this moment on, you shall be Prince Beelze, Prince Consort, Duke of Gehenna, Lord of Xibalba.” He reaches into the box and retrieves an intricate diadem, which he places on their head, mindful of their veil. Then he holds out his hand to Brian, who hands him a ceremonial sword. He taps the flat of it on Beelze’s shoulders then hands it back to Brian.

He holds out his hand to Beelze and helps them stand. “All hail Prince Beelze!” he shouts and the crowd echos.

Beelze steps aside as Gabriel calls for Aziraphale. He sinks down into the sand on his knees and the King addresses the crowd. “Many of you know that my brother’s knowledge on the battlefield has protected Our nation for many years. In these past weeks, he has defended Our crown from treason on three fronts and been victorious each time.” He takes the ceremonial sword again and touches the flat of it to each of Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Prince Aziraphale, brother mine, Duke of Igirisu, Lord of Charon, you shall now be my Secretary of Defense and advise me in the supreme command of our military. We gift to you the home you should have had ownership of long ago—Fellstone Keep and its tenants are yours, brother. Keep house with me at least until our mourning ends, Aziraphale, then set up your own with Our love.” He selects a crown from the jewel box and sets it on his head. “Until that time when my line is secure and my heir is born,” at this people mutter, but Gabriel carries on, “Prince Aziraphale is my sole heir.”

Aziraphale kisses his brother’s hand and rises to bow again. Applause and shouts ring out.

“Crowley, consort to Prince Aziraphale, attend Us,” the king calls when the cheers have died down. Crowley gulps. He kneels at the King’s feet and stares at his knees. “Let it be known that an _oiran_ from the South had done what no other could. He has brought joy to Our most beloved brother the prince. He has Our eternal gratitude for this—but We also owe him a debt. He has saved Our life not once, but three times. Twice from assassins and a third time from the traitorous princess. All crimes called against his name are forgive and forgotten. So says the King.” He reaches into the jewel box and pulls free a delicate silver circlet. He places it on Crowley’s head, careful to not disturb his headscarf. He then takes the sword and taps it to his shoulders. “I present Sir Knight Crowley, who will serve and defend Us well. He shall hereafter be Duke of Tartaros and Lord of Arallu.”

Crowley bows low, with one hand shading his eyes and the other pressed to his sigil. Holy shit. He was a knight? A duke and a lord? Wasn’t someone just calling him a whore a few days ago?

As he stands, his fingers brush the strand of pearls that an honest to heaven goddess blessed him with. Maybe he was less like Cinderella than he’d suggested and more like a prophet. The idea makes him nearly laugh aloud. Instead, he focused on standing at Aziraphale’s side and watching the pyre burn. It will burn itself out and be brought back to shore in the daylight. The queen will be interned in the crypt with her forefathers.

Gabriel takes Beelze’s hand and leads the processional from the beach to the throne room. Aziraphale offers his arm to Crowley and they follow directly after the King and his consort. In the candlelight of the citizens on the shore, Aziraphale’s crown glints gold. In their absence from the palace, servants have covered the throne with purple silks and added a second, smaller throne beside Gabriel’s. The King does not take this seat but instead settles onto a low stool that is set before the throne on the dais and he helps his consort sit beside him on one. Aziraphale climbs the dais with Crowley on his arm. They sit on the stools beside the king.

And here they shall sit until dawn breaks. They will take no food or drink. They will not speak. The court will drift in and out at their comfort, but they are not required to follow these customs. That stated, they must remain silent in the throne room. The priests and clerics each come to lay fresh blessings on the King and his Prince Consort, then they drift away for their beds. No doubt they will be back at dawn for the funeral breakfast.

Outside, the pyre burns. Inside, Crowley maps out the lines of Aziraphale’s palms. Occasionally, Crowley will reach up and touch the circlet on his head in disbelief. Sometimes, he thinks of what he will ask his goddess for. What else could he possibly want?

Aziraphale looks over at him and knits their fingers together. His eyes are wrinkled and battling for which emotion to land on. Joy and sorrow war there, but seem to be bested by sheer exhaustion. Crowley scoots closer and presses his side to Aziraphale’s. They sit and wait for the sun to rise.


	22. Marriage of True Minds and Such Alterations

In the wee hours before morning breaks, the throne room empties of everyone but the royal household. Aziraphale’s exhaustion makes his eyes swim and the horizon wobble. Crowley turns on his stool and makes Aziraphale turn to face him. He brackets the prince’s knees in his own and gently removes his crown. This he settles in their lap, then pulls the prince forward to lean on his chest. Aziraphale tries to protest, but Crowley wraps his headscarf around his head and shoulders. The companion tugs him closer until he’s holding the prince’s weight and then begins to slowly rub his back. Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut without his permission and he sleeps.

He feels as though he’s barely slept when Crowley shakes him awake. He guides the prince’s head up and rests their foreheads together. They are silent still, but Crowley’s yellow eyes burn into his brightly. Aziraphale rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands and sits back with a yawn. Behind him, Beelze wakes the King in a similar manner. The dawn is coming if the gray light beyond the stained glass is to be believed. The court will rejoin them soon.

Crowley lays the crown back on Aziraphale’s head with a fond mix of adoration and pride that makes the prince swallow. Aziraphale, in turn, tries to resettle Crowley’s headscarf. His hands are unsteady from lack of sleep, so he’s not sure that he helps. The doors to the throne room open and the clerics enter in a procession under garlands of flowers. Each priest or cleric bears a torch. The line up before the king and bow.

Gabriel stands from his low stool and the court, all who have returned now that they’ve slept, bow. Beelze, Crowley, and he all stay seated until he gestures for them to rise.

Crowley wraps his arm around the prince’s waist and holds him steady. Both he and Beelze are used to late nights with little sleep. While they might be out of practice from these past days, they appear in better shape than he or the King.

“Hail and welcome the first day of the King!” a cleric calls, but Aziraphale is too tired to care who. Gabriel offers his hand to Beelze and he guides them under the garlands and to the dining hall. Crowley does not let go of Aziraphale, so they follow wrapped around each other’s waists.

The dining hall is bathed in the pink, rosy glow of dawn. The great table is laid with delicacies and candelabras. The King leads them past all this and to the low table behind his usual seat. He helps Beelze sit on their stool, then seats himself. These stools are similar to those they just left in the throne room and Aziraphale’s bottom aches in displeasure.

The court and the clerics all circle them. It seems to make Crowley uncomfortable because he pulls his headscarf closed around his face. He ducks his eyes and something stabs into Aziraphale’s heart. The clerics step forward and hold up their torches.

Some maidens in the court hurry forward and drape a garland over each of their shoulders. Its weight is comforting in some way. Aziraphale sighs and Crowley finally looks up to meet his eyes in concern. It’s lovely to stare into that beloved face. Something loosens inside him. Next, a servant brings forth two silver caudle cups. As hungry as he is, just the thought makes the prince’s stomach turn.

He knows that caudle is common for those in the sickroom or in childbirth, but he hates that it is a part of mourning. He remembers the last time he had to stomach it at his father’s funeral; he was nearly sick.

The silver caudles are handed to the consorts. The King looks at the cup with a barely hidden disgust but allows Beelze to tip the cup of sweetened oatmeal, wine, and egg mixture into his mouth. He drinks and tries very hard not to look like he wants to spit it out. Beelze offers an apologetic grimace and then takes a deep breath before drinking from the same cup.

Crowley gives Aziraphale an attempt at a smile and then holds the caudle out for him to drink. He quickly takes a mouthful and swallows with a very discernible nose scrunch. Crowley decides to just treat it like a shot and swallows with a gag.

Now finished, the King rises and leads his household out of the room. The court waves them off, then sits to a grand breakfast. Alone in the hallway, draped in flower garlands, they look at each other.

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley acknowledges. “Sleep well, you two.”

Then he gives an eye and sigil covering bow and takes Aziraphale’s waist again.

“Sweet dreams, Sire,” Aziraphale offers to Gabriel before the King and his consort leave up the stairs to their chambers. Crowley guides them away and Aziraphale lets his eyes drift closed even as they walk.

“Almost home, angel,” Crowley assures. When Aziraphale opens his eyes though, he’s confused.

Where there was destruction in the courtyard, there is now new architecture. He blinks.

“While you napped, I prayed to Béḃinn about my gift.”

“Obviously,” Aziraphale tones, sarcastically. Then his eyes fall on the door to their rooms. It is now a pair of heavy wooden doors with their joined sigils engraved at their center.

“Oh, Crowley,” he breathes.

Crowley will not look at the prince, but opens the door in a rush, “Just wait until you see what I’ve done. She was very generous.”

His restoration is more of a renovation and it’s fit for a couple in line to the throne. The rooms are larger and rearranged. The first thing Aziraphale sees is the door to what was once his bedroom. Now it’s a formal library with a large desk and many unfilled, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He opens the glass French doors and wanders in. He touches the spines of the books, some new and some restored.

“Darling, this is too much!” he exclaims as he finds a seating area around a fireplace where his bed once was. A decanter of brandy sits on a low table next to an armchair that looks absolutely wonderful to sit in. A pair of tall telescopes lean against the wall beside his long-overlooked cello and music stand.

Beyond that, the balcony now holds an abundance of plants that surround a cafe table and pair of chairs. Sleeping couches line one side in the sun.

Aziraphale drifts back into the main sitting area. It’s more of a joint common space now. Where it once only had his bookshelves, fireplace, and a sofa, it now also houses a small pianoforte, a harp, and an architect’s drafting table. Under this are piles of art supplies. The shutters open out onto a much larger-than-before balcony that holds a grand dining table with seats for eight. More lush plants dot the space here and into the sitting area. He only pauses here a moment before returning to Crowley.

“Thank you, my love,” he whispers. Crowley taps the wine rack behind him that is heavily filled. It’s right outside the door to their bedroom.

“I was being selfish, so it’s posh.”

“It’s perfect.” Then he reaches around the companion to open the door to their room.

The room is rearranged. A fireplace and couch with chairs are the first things he now sees, instead of the bed. There are two sets of shutters that flank the fireplace out onto the balcony. A glance outside shows a hanging bed surrounded by curtains, an outdoor fireplace, a potting bench, and some patio chairs.

Inside, their fireplace surround is dark gray tile with gold, blue, and red star tiles interspersed. There is a loom here with a basket of colored wool. Behind this sitting area is a small dining space for two. The room is divided here with paper shades and plants that hang from the ceiling in macrame ropes. Behind these screens is their marriage bed. It’s somehow grown larger, which makes Crowley laugh with joy.

“I didn’t plan that.”

Aziraphale chuckles at this. “She knows us.”

He notes their wardrobes side-by-side and the pair of matching side tables. The scones on the wall are now winged serpents wrapped around quills and flaming swords. Aziraphale removes his crown and sets it on the table. The garland of flowers joins it.

He continues his inspection as Crowley adds his circlet to the same pile. The ensuite is enormous. The bathtub could actually be a pool. The counter is doubled in size and holds two basins now. The floor is the same star-laden tile as the fireplace.

Crowley toes off his sandals and follows the prince in bare feet. He pulls Aziraphale’s robe off his shoulders and tosses it onto the floor. His own headscarf and outer robe join this. He brushes past the prince and pours water into one of the basins. He washes the chalk from his hands and then his face.

A servant knocks and enters. Somehow they are not even phased by the changed room. They bear a tray of food, which they set on the table in the small dining area and then bow and leave. Aziraphale seats himself and pours a cup of tea.

“Angel?” Crowley calls from behind the screen.

“Here, love. Breakfast has arrived,” he notes.

Crowley saunters out in just his breeches. His left earlobe is still streaked with purple chalk and his hairline is wet. He drops into the chair opposite of Aziraphale and pours a cup of coffee. When he sees Aziraphale’s empty plate, he starts filling it with fruit and muffins.

“That gruel this morning does not count as food. It should be given to prisoners. No, actually, no that’s too cruel,” he observes. He takes a bite of an apple and continues to talk. “It’s a waste of perfectly good wine.”

“It was rather, wasn’t it?”

“Who adds milk to wine and thinks, ‘this would be great to serve to people in mourning!’ That ruddy bastard didn’t think people were hurting enough at that point so he made that recipe up?”

Aziraphale chuckles and eats a muffin. It’s small and pops into his mouth in one bite. Crowley immediately adds another to his plate, even though there are still three there. The prince cocks his eyebrow in question.

“You were in a war yesterday. You need feeding up and then put to bed.”

“Are you my nanny now?” he teases, sipping his tea.

Crowley looks at him seriously. “I want to take care of you, angel.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand across the table. “Of course, my dear. You do it so well. And you have seven uninterrupted days of mourning to be stuck with no one but me, so I’m sure you’ll be tired of it by the end.”

Crowley does not break eye contact. “I’m looking forward to it, as strange as that may sound to you. You’re my best friend and my dearest love, I would never get tired of you.”

Mindful of tradition, Aziraphale stands up quickly and strips out of his clothing, then surges forward and kisses Crowley. “Of course not, Crowley. I love you so, my darling.”

Crowley tucks him into his lap and forces him to eat another muffin and drink his tea. The combination of something in his stomach and warmth against his back, however, makes it hard to hold up his head. Crowley seems to realize this and guides them up and through the screens to their bed. He kicks free of his breeches and he holds the mosquito netting up for Aziraphale to slide under. The bed is much larger than it was the last time they were in it, so Aziraphale feels adrift. Crowley pulls back the duvet and tugs them both under it. He arranges the prince on his side as he likes to sleep and then lays to face him. Crowley presses their foreheads together and kisses the prince’s nose.

“Sleep, angel. We’ve got seven days to rest and no place to be. Just sleep.” And he does not need more convincing.

When Aziraphale wakes, the room is lit with afternoon sun and Crowley is gone from the bed. He stumbles out from under the duvet and has to blink several times to determine where he is. Sleep-drunk and confused, he eventually finds the toilet and then the way out to their private balcony.

Crowley is there toiling over his potting bench. Dirt is scattered all around him. He is transferring a collection of small hibiscuses from their burlap bags into glazed pots. He talks to them as he does so.

“I am expecting exceptional blooms here on this side. The sun is perfect and you have the sea wind—“

“Dearest?” Aziraphale asks, with a sleep rasp.

“Angel!” Crowley grins and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. There is dirt encased under his fingernails and all over his hands. He’s dressed in a loose abaya that is nearly see-through in the sun. Aziraphale notes that he’s wearing something dark under his tunic, but he can’t make it out.

“I’m glad you slept. I just called for tea. Should be here soon.”

He sees that Aziraphale is only in his boxers and slides past him to find him a dressing gown. He hurries back and holds it open so Aziraphale can slide his arms into the sleeves. Then, he bundles the prince into a sun lounger and returns to his flowers.

“I asked Béḃinn to give me things to plant, so all these out on the balconies will need potted properly. I finished the sea grapes just now and those palms—look out they’re prickly buggers.” He gestures to each blue-glazed pot with his trowel in turn before returning to his bench and work.

“You enjoy gardening then? Not just the harvesting in the vineyards,” Aziraphale comments as a servant scampers out holding a tea tray. “Right here, if you’d please,” he directs. The servant looks alarmed that he’s speaking to her and he winces as the break from custom.

Even so, he looks greedily at the spread she delivers. There are light sandwiches, scones with jam, and tiny biscuits to accompany their tea. The servant is already gone before he can thank her.

“Go wash up, darling,” he urges as he selects a scone. “I’ll be mother.” He pours two cups of tea and adds cream to his own. He nibbles as he waits and looks out at the sea.

Crowley drops onto the lounger beside him and adds cream and sugar to his tea before downing it in one big gulp. He pours more and adds cream and sugar again.

“I didn’t realize I was hungry. Or dry for that matter,” Crowley admits and drinks again. As he does, Aziraphale notes there is still dirt etched into the lines of his hands.

“Remind me to order you some gloves for gardening, my dear.” He catches one of Crowley’s hands and turns it over. A scratch runs down the side of his thumb.

Crowley looks knowingly at the cut then over at the palms. “I told you. Prickly buggers. They’ll straighten up if they know what’s best for them.”

Aziraphale chuckles lightly and selects a sandwich.

“They’ve made coronation chicken,” Aziraphale observes dryly and holds out the quarter of a sandwich.

“Cheeky,” Crowley notes and leans over to take a bite of said sandwich.

Aziraphale looks between his half-eaten sandwich and Crowley’s crumb-covered smirk. “Quite,” he agrees.

After the tea is gone cold and the tray empty, they snuggle together on the lounger in the sun. Gulls land on the handrail and call for their crusts.

“Get lost,” Crowley grouses, but without any heat or energy. The gulls make no move to leave. Then again, neither does the companion. He has his arms wrapped around the prince and one leg kicked over his waist. The gulls fluff up their feathers.

Crowley rubs his cheek on Aziraphale’s chest, then slithers up to his shoulder. He pulls the dressing gown open to kiss at the prince’s clavicle bone. He suddenly pauses and looks up at Aziraphale in alarm. “For the next seven days, what are the customs on sex?”

Aziraphale chuckles breathily. “No need to abstain, thankfully. We just can’t entertain anyone else.”

Crowley’s sunglasses flash. “I don’t have any intention of sharing you, angel.”

Aziraphale strokes his head and pulls him back to the juncture between his torso and neck. This could go in many different directions, but the low throb in his groin urges him on.

“Don’t misunderstand me, darling, I have no interest in that either. However, the concept of watching someone else take you to pieces in pleasure while I watch does have some merit.” Crowley sits up sharply with his mouth agape in disbelief.

“C—com—come again?” he stutters.

“No doubt you’ve been between two lovers in the past?” Aziraphale asks, partially teasing. He tangles his fingers in Crowley’s wild curls.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear about it?”

“Mmm, not particularly in specifics, no. But I also assume you were working, so that wasn’t about your pleasure.”

Crowley props his elbow on Aziraphale’s chest and rests his head on his hand. “Not particularly what a patron is paying for, certainly. But, I mean, I found some enjoyment in every encounter.”

Aziraphale twirls a red lock around his index finger and gives a little tug. “I’m interested in your extreme enjoyment, you might say. I would enjoy seeing you come undone, say with two people’s mouths?” Aziraphale watches the way Crowley’s Adam’s apple bobs. His lips part and he bites the lower one.

“You’d be one of them?” Crowley asks, unsure, but breathless.

“No, my dear boy,” he gives the ringlet another light tug, “I’d sit in my chair and watch the way you’d be unable to decide which way to fuck yourself. Backward onto someone’s tongue or forward into someone’s throat. Then I’d enjoy the way the flush starts at your face and works down your throat and chest until you came.”

Crowley is actually frozen, it appears. Aziraphale’s not even sure that he’s breathing.

“Fuck,” the companion whispers. “Aziraphale, you are going to kill me.”

The prince gives a throaty, dark laugh and pulls Crowley into a devouring kiss. There is nothing like kisses after tea, he decides. Crowley rocks his erection against the prince’s hip, then climbs on top of him and stretches out. Aziraphale revises his thought. There is nothing like kisses that get Crowley worked up. The companion knits their fingers together and presses Aziraphale’s hands into the lounger above his head.

“Stay there,” he growls, huskily, “don’t move those.”

Then he sets to work opening the sash of the dressing gown and pushing the silk off of his body. Crowley sucks bruises into Aziraphale’s stomach and licks his rips and nipples until they’re raw. The gulls that line the balcony handrail made occasional calls and questions, so Crowley hisses at them.

“Enough commentary from the audience,” he snaps. “You don’t even have thumbs.” Then he redoubles his efforts of biting Aziraphale’s clavicle and throat.

Aziraphale gives a happy sigh but it breaks off when Crowley stands. He strips off his tunic and the prince is momentarily shocked. Crowley is wearing a black corset. His pale skin and dark tattoos peak through the pattern of the unbacked-lace. The boning is pulled tight by long satin ribbons that blow across his back and waist in the sea wind. A ruffle of black lace covers the tops of his thighs and thatch of ginger hair. His cock juts out between the ruffles.

He pulls his sunglasses off and drops them onto the tea tray. “C’mon, angel,” he coaxes and climbs onto the bed that swings from ropes, “this is part of my gift.”

Aziraphale prepares to join him but pauses to take in the sight. The bed swings rhythmically. Crowley is propped up on his side on a mound of pillows with one hand behind his head and the other lazily stroking himself. He pulls his hair so it pours over one shoulder like a waterfall. He obviously knows he’s beautiful and based on the curl of his mouth, he likes when Aziraphale looks.

The prince leaves the dressing gown on the lounger and walks across the swinging mattress on his knees. He pauses at Crowley’s thighs and brushes curious fingertips across the lace and boning at his stomach.

“Are you sure it’s a gift for you?” he teases. “I think you’re mistaken; this is all mine. My darling, you look like you’re waiting for me to unwrap you.”

Flush stains Crowley’s cheeks pink and make his freckles stand out. “I’d like that,” he admits and cocks his hip more toward Aziraphale. His foot slides up the mattress and pushes his hips closer.

“Would you?” Aziraphale asks, letting his fingers trace one track of boning up to Crowley’s chest. “Or were you hoping that I’d leave you cinched tight and fuck you until you couldn’t catch your breath?”

Crowley gives a hungry purr and Aziraphale decides officially, yes, this is much more of a gift for himself than for Crowley. He hooks his thumbs under the waist of his boxers and kicks them off. The bed rocks.

“I think I’ll leave this on,” the prince decides and tugs Crowley up off the pillows by the top of the corset. Aziraphale settles back into the mound of pillows and pats his thighs. “I like the way you look, all trussed up. I think I’ll watch.”

Crowley hikes his leg over Aziraphale’s hips and settles over his thighs without touching. “Trussed, huh? Would you like me to tie you to the bed? Or would you rather be the one tying?” He stokes himself slowly and rolls his spine in pleasure. The sunlight shines on his hair and highlights it copper.

Aziraphale reaches out and catches Crowley’s wrist to stop his strokes. “I’m not particularly interested in not being able to touch you,” he admits as he pulls Crowley’s hand off of his cock. “And I’ve seen the contents of your _oiran_ toolbox. I’m fairly sure that you are a master at being denied. Someday, maybe I’ll bind you and push you past your training?” He licks his lips and pulls Crowley forward by his wrist. They kiss passionately and the prince reaches down to grasp both of their erections. Crowley adjusts his angle and lines himself up along the ridge of the prince’s cock.

Aziraphale gives him a kiss in thanks and begins to stroke them. His other hand finds the lacing ribbon at Crowley’s back and pulls. Crowley arches into his hold and breaks their kiss. He plants both hands in the pillows around Aziraphale’s head. When he leans down for another kiss, the prince yanks the lacings again and pulls Crowley back.

“I want to see you, my darling. Stay there so I can watch your face,” he orders and twists his wrist on the companion’s erection. Crowley shivers.

“I was hoping we’d make this bed live up to its name,” Crowley moans and pushes forward so that the bed swings from its ropes.

Aziraphale stokes up the side of Crowley’s corset and catalogs the way his skin feels between the lace. His touch is light and Crowley’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“How did you envision that, Crowley? You on your knees and me behind you?”

Crowley’s eyes open, yellow and wide. “No, but now it is.”

Aziraphale will deny him nothing. Seeing his want reflected in that beloved face is all it takes. He sits up and Crowley digs under the mattress to where he hid a vial of sweet almond oil. Aziraphale takes it from him and pats his hip.

“On your knees then,” he says and uncaps the vial.

Crowley is a vision. The sun dapples through the gauzy ceiling and across his pale shoulders. The black lace stands out sharply in the light. It’s his red hair, blowing in the breeze, but pouring off his shoulders that makes him seem so exotic. Aziraphale cups one of his jutting hipbones and presses a kiss on one of his buttocks.

Almonds will always remind him of intimacy with his lover, he thinks, as he dribbles some oil from the vial and between Crowley’s cheeks. The companion lets his head fall forward with a groan. Aziraphale drags three fingers through the oil, spreading it from the back of Crowley’s testicles, over his perineum, and over his rim. It’s like finger paint, he thinks amusedly, as he rubs his oiled middle finger of Crowley’s anus.

“Stop teasing,” Crowley hisses.

“Or what?” the prince replies, pressing forward.

Crowley decides to show off and pushes back taking the entire digit into himself with one jerk of his hips. Aziraphale’s mouth opens involuntarily and saliva gathers.

“Oh by the gods,” he whimpers, “Crowley, you need to go slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Crowley chuckles then reaches back with his own two fingers and presses them in. They rub along Aziraphale’s middle digit as they enter his channel.

“Angel, I was made for this. You fucked me dry yesterday and I was ready. I am yours and you can have me right away anytime,” he leers, eyes bright with amusement and want.

Aziraphale tries to fight against the fantasies that come to mind. This ability certainly creates some. Even so, he will never hurt Crowley, even if he swears he can take it. Yesterday’s pool water as lubricant had to have made him sore. This in mind, he presses a kiss to the stretched muscle, being mindful to brush his lip along Crowley’s fingers. Crowley makes a noise that completely lacks any vowels and presses his body backward.

Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley’s and twists their hands. Crowley bucks and gasps. He might be a trained _oiran_ , but the prince is determined to surprise him at least some of the time. Crowley has had enough of waiting, it seems because he pulls their joined hands free of himself and fumbles about for the vial. He pours oil into his hands and slicks up the prince’s cock.

“Angel, please. Quit teasing me. I’ve been waiting for hours.” The rolls back up onto his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder. The bed swings with his movements.

“I have a mind to keep you like this,” Aziraphale admits. “Teach you some patience.”

Crowley glares over his shoulder, then suddenly this slides into something more lustful. “All right, my prince. I’ll warn you though, I can and will outlast you.”

Competition curls in Aziraphale’s shoulders and he scoots forward to settle behind his consort. He transfers from oil from his prick to his fingers and slides two into Crowley. He rubs all around, looking for a certain cluster of nerves.

“Higher,” Crowley directs. “If you’re going to play dirty, anyway.”

Aziraphale chuckles and kisses Crowley’s cheeks, one after the other, then presses in deeper looking for his query. He tries hooking his fingers, but they seem too short to find his goal. Instead, he rests his other two fingers and his thumb across the taut skin and then uses these as leverage to fuck his companion.

Crowley gives a warm hum of pleasure but holds completely still. The bed shifts but a little. Aziraphale twists his fingers and rocks them in and out of Crowley. Even still, the _oiran_ does not move. Aziraphale pulls out, adds more oil, and slides a third finger past Crowley’s rim. He feels the pulse of Crowley’s heartbeat and the heat that grips his fingers. Crowley makes no sound now. He fucks back in deep and then out to his fingertips. Crowley is silent and still.

With a frown, Aziraphale sits up on his knees and adjusts his hand. He dips in and out quickly. No response.

“Can you take four?” he asks, curiously examining Crowley’s corseted spine.

“More oil, then sure,” Crowley replies offhandedly. He seems bored, if Aziraphale is honest like he’s played this game too many times with too many beaus. It stills Aziraphale’s hand.

“Crowley?” he asks, his voice unsure. The companion looks back at him, and, yes, his face is completely checked out. He gives an absent smile, but it’s all acting. Aziraphale pulls out and sits back hard. “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, angel, what?” Crowley turns quickly and grabs Aziraphale’s hands. He’s suddenly back in the present.

“You’re not enjoying yourself—“

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far—“

“—you were _working_ just then. You were just some companion and I some patron. I never want that, my darling.”

Crowley opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it again.

“What did I do that made you, rather, well, leave? Mentally, I mean?” the prince asks, hesitantly.

Crowley won’t meet his eyes. He’s examining the curtains that hang around the outdoor bed and the ropes that hold up the mattress.

“It’s a habit, I think. Really sorry—“

“No, it wasn’t a habit. Please don’t lie to me. You’ve never done that before. I’ve done something and I never want to do it again—“

“Patience.”

“Yes, well, of course, my dear boy, I can wait if you’re not ready to tell me!”

Crowley shakes his head and then hides his face in his hands. “It’s when you told me that you’d teach me patience and, umm, fingered me. It’s a training exercise.”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s hands away from his face and leans forward to kiss him. “Forgive me, my love.”

“Nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley tries to deny, but Aziraphale overrides him.

“You’re my lover and my partner. You’re my husband in all but name, Crowley. I will not have our time together sullied because you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Crowley kisses him then, slow and yearningly. He keeps hold of Aziraphale’s face as he lays down on his back.

“I am, angel. I just got lost for a moment.”

“You’re here with me now, my love,” the prince promises as Crowley pulls him on top of him. “Let me prove it?”

Crowley wraps his long legs around Aziraphale’s thighs and his corset scratches the princes’ belly. The prince arranges himself on his knees and lines up to push into his consort’s welcoming body. The bed rocks with him as he sets a slow and deep pace.

Crowley never lets go of Aziraphale’s biceps and will not break eye contact. The prince ducks his head to rest their heads together as he rocks them back and forth.

“There is nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley repeats. “I love you, you know.”

Aziraphale gives a wet chuckle and thrusts a little harder. It makes Crowley’s breath hitch. He squeezes the prince’s biceps and pushes him back onto his heels. Before he can ask, Crowley, rolls over onto his knees and braces himself on his elbows.

Aziraphale stares at his pert bum. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, angel, yes,” he purrs. “Do you know how deep you can take me this way? Plus, this way I’ll get less jizz on my corset.”

This makes Aziraphale blink. He’s not sure what to say back to that. “Right, then. Umm, tickety-boo.”

“Ticket what?” Crowley asks, but Aziraphale is sliding home again. His hips bump against Crowley’s cheeks and he latches onto the boney hips in front of him. His second thrust doesn’t get the reaction he’s looking for either. He lifts Crowley up by the hips, so his knees are closer together and the angle changes.

The ropes of the bed shift and twist with each snap of the prince’s hips. Crowley claws at the mattress below them and presses backward. Pleased, the prince sets a smooth pace.

“Angel, angel, harder,” Crowley wails. Aziraphale releases one of his hips to grab the lacings of his corset and tug him upright and against his chest. He wraps one arm around Crowley’s chest and splays his fingers across the lacy boning to hold him in place. The other hand holds his hip and keeps him still.

He presses his lips to Crowley’s ear and pants hotly there while whispering to his lover. “There, my darling?” he asks as he thrusts up. “Is that where you want me?”

“Yes,” Crowley whimpers and tries to drop down onto Aziraphale’s cock. The prince holds him in place.

“If I go any harder, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

This drags a delicious groan from Crowley. “Want it. I want it, please, Aziraphale.”

And who is the prince to deny him? His legs are tiring, so he leans them down again and lets Crowley’s arms hold their weight. Aziraphale refuses to loose his hold from Crowley’s chest or his hip. The leverage isn’t great, but the closeness is wonderful. He kisses the skin behind Crowley’s ear and his face gets lost in long red hair.

Crowley is rocking back to meet him at each trust and he can feel how the companion is tightening around him too.

“So good to me, my darling boy,” he coos and kisses the hair, skin, and sweat that is under his mouth. He drops his hand from the companion’s chest and braces himself on the bed. He fucks forward harder with sharp thrusts that leave Crowley panting out broken gasps below him. He’s suddenly chasing that flying feeling and loses all rhythm as he does so.

Aziraphale comes, hard and sharp inside Crowley and then slumps down, spent, across the small of the companion’s back. He presses his face into his shoulder blades and tries to catch his breath. The sharp edges of the corset press into his chin.

“Flip over for me, my dear,” he asks, when he is able. Crowley is still under him and still hard. His eyes shine with delight as he does.

“Was it good, angel?” he asks, pleased with himself.

“With you, it would never be anything but,” Aziraphale agrees, then paws down the lace corset with both hands. “You are beautiful, Crowley. So beautiful, my darling.”

Crowley preens and combs his fingers through his mane to feather it over his shoulder and about his head on the bed. Aziraphale pauses to watch and strokes the fabric under his hands. His fingers travel further south, taking in the bruises that he’s left on Crowley’s hips.

Aziraphale lifts Crowley up by this same space and the companion shifts forward so that his knees fall open. Aziraphale licks the head of Crowley’s cock like ice cream. Crowley’s head lolls back onto the mattress and he gives a happy sigh.

While he’s not looking, Aziraphale slides three fingers back into him. He’s slick with seed and oil. Crowley gives a grunt of pleasure and wiggles back onto Aziraphale’s hand.

“Hard,” he demands, roughly. “Please, gods, please.”

Before he can request more, Aziraphale takes him into his mouth and sucks him in time with his finger fucking. Crowley’s back goes limp, but his leg twitches off the bed until his feet are planted. Aziraphale pulls off and out of him. Crowley keens with loss.

Aziraphale sits back against the pillows as he had done earlier and gives a “come hither” wiggle to his finger. Crowley crawls up the rocking bed.

“Here, my love,” he helps Crowley settle on his stomach, legs on each side of his ribs, and with his back braced on the prince’s knees. Aziraphale stretches forward and slides his fingers through the slick that gathers between Crowley’s cheeks. “Show me how hard you like it?” And he pushes his fingers past the tight ring of muscle again.

Punishing, it appears, is what his lover wants. Crowley’s hair circles his face as he wiggles his hips and sinks down further onto Aziraphale’s hand sharply. He takes himself in hand and rolls his balls in his other hand. He rises up on his knees, sliding off the prince’s fingers and then squats back onto them in rapid succession. He works his hand up and down the length of him quickly and with a tight fist. It’s the most intricate and lovely dance that Aziraphale has ever seen and he curls his fingers when Crowley fucks down onto them.

It draws a cry from the companion and then he’s pulsing out his release over the prince’s chest.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale praises and slides his hand free. He cups Crowley’s ass with this hand and then strokes his spent cock with his other. “I’ll know for next time,” he suggests and continues his caress. Crowley’s head drops backward and he leans more weight into Aziraphale’s knees. He grasps the prince’s ankles as if it’s the only way to keep his hands to himself.

It tickles the prince’s curiosity. “If I keep stroking you, even if it’s too much, will you let me bring you to another orgasm?” Crowley shivers and moans. “Could you take me touching you like this for half an hour?”

“If you want me to,” the companion moans. “I can.”

Aziraphale squeezes the base of his cock and then lets his hand drop away. “Did they teach you that?”

Crowley sucks in a deep breath and nods. “About three times is as much as I can go, though. I need a good nap afterward too.” He slides down onto the bed and snuggles into Aziraphale’s side.

The prince watches him give a jaw-cracking yawn. “Are you sure you don’t need a nap now?” he teases. The bed rocks like a cradle.

“I need out of this, it’s starting to itch,” Crowley comments tugging at the corset. Aziraphale pulls them both to their feet. Once up, he stands behind Crowley and begins to loosen the ribbons. The corset slides lower as the laces come free. The boning has left red stripes down his middle and the prince touches these reddened lines.

“Maybe a bath too,” Crowley suggests as he sees his torso.

“That sounds lovely. Let’s.” Aziraphale wiggles and holds his hand out to Crowley. After they bathe, they lay in a tangle of limbs on the sofa in the sitting room and sip glasses of champagne.

“I meant to ask you, but, well, everything has been so—“ Crowley searches for a word.

“Absolutely batshit crazy?” Aziraphale jokes as he raises his flute to his lips.

“Just so,” Crowley replies and bounces his foot where it rests on Aziraphale’s knee. “When you captured all those ships, how did Michael take to being defeated a fourth time by my dashing, brave prince?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at such descriptors. “I didn’t capture her.”

Crowley stills. “Michael’s dead then?”

Aziraphale stares at his companion in confusion. “No, Michael wasn’t on board. We never saw her.”

Crowley twists around and his face shows confusion. “I swear that you said something about her…”

“She definitely had a hand in the planning of the attack. She was not among those we took to the dungeons.”

Crowley contemplates his response. “So either she died with your brother in the storm—“

“—unlikely.”

“—or she commanded the attack from somewhere else and could lead another assault at any time.”

“I’ll admit that I’m hoping she went under with one of the smaller ships, but it’s highly unlikely. If I were her,” he takes a sip and considers his words, “I would need to raise another army. Where she’ll get such support, I’m unsure, unless she raises a rebellion in the East and tries to take her kingdom back.”

“Should we go to your Keep then?” Crowley asks, shifting to sit up further. “I know Gabriel asked you to stay and keep house for some time. But if we need to, we can be packed in an hour.” He scans the room and all the new items the goddess had gifted them. He purses his lips and revises, “Maybe three hours.”

“I won’t break the seven days of mourning. I had intended to stay for all six months and keep to the customs.” He sets his flute onto the table and contemplates the ceiling. “Of course, if I were in Michael’s shoes, I would know that and plan my attack accordingly.”

Crowley sets his glass next to the prince’s. “Should I start packing us?”

Aziraphale considers this. “We’ll stay for all seven days. After that, I’ll gather intel and make our decision.” He takes Crowley’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Maybe make your packing list, but let’s not get the trunks out just yet.”

He tries to sit still, but once the idea has taken hold, he struggles to sit still. Crowley rises from their cuddle and adjusts his robe.

“Shall we move to your desk so you can work?” he suggests as he digs under his desk for a sketchpad and colored pencils.

“Not work, not during mourning,” Aziraphale decides and stands also. “Research, however. List making, certainly.”

Crowley gives him a fond look and trails after him into the library. It even smells like a proper library now and Aziraphale gives silent thanks to Béḃinn. His desk is larger than it was and far more cluttered, which actually pleases him. There are new quills and colors of ink, as well as various parchments and empty, new journals. He lets his fingers touch them all before he selects an orange-hued parchment for his list. He finds a new lovely pair of spectacles and gives a little noise of delight. He begins his list.

Some items are simple. He needs to contact the tailor to get him and Crowley additional mourning tunics or sashes. The entirely purple garment for six months can wear on a man. Of course, he thinks, another set or two of mourning weeds might be necessary if they are needed in town. He scratches this down.

He’ll need to order all the horses reshod, in case they’ll need to travel. And if they go to Fellstone Keep, what will they take with them? If Crowley wants to take any of these new large items, loom, harm, or pianoforte, he’ll need to order at least three wagons. He thinks back to the state of the Keep after those idiot generals plunder all his goods. He’ll need more than three wagons, it seems.

He makes a note to contact General Young about the Western front. Another note about advancements for Device, Pulsifer, and Nutter. He thinks of the four children who bore lanterns at his mother’s funeral. Might they become pages? He glances over at Crowley. He’s slung over one of the new armchairs. His legs wrap over one arm and his head rests on the other. His sketchpad is balanced on his lap and he is happily shading his art.

He’s a knight now. He’ll need a page and squire. Aziraphale makes a note to help Crowley select a motto and crest. Briefly, he considers if Crowley will need a signet ring. He will certainly need some of the goods from the royal jewels. No consort of his is going to just have a silver circlet for an outing.

Aziraphale adds an asterisk to the tailor note on his list. Crowley will need more than just purple in his wardrobe. Considering this, he also makes a note to balance his budget. It would be tempting to go broke showing his partner in presents.

“Anything for the list, darling?” he asks and sets his quill into the inkwell.

“Which list is that?” Crowley replies, clearly focused on his sketch. “The ‘possibly moving house list’ or the 'going to war again’ list?”

“Hilarious. It’s the ‘to do after the mourning period’ list.” 

Crowley lets the sketchbook fall flat onto his chest and focuses on the prince thoughtfully. “You and the King need to do something to remember those from the market attack and the battle last night.”

Aziraphale feels a stirring of grief. His poor people have suffered so much these last days. “Indeed. Perhaps some sort of celebration of life.”

Crowley taps his lip with his colored pencil of choice. “Food, music, that sort of thing? Sort of a low key village fete?”

“Just so,” Aziraphale agrees and takes up his pen. “Some sort of memorial for those we lost.”

“And then you need to look into Michael’s disappearing act,” Crowley reminds, darkly, as the quill scratches across the page.

“I assure you, dear boy, that if she’s alive, she’ll let us know. I’ll arrange for those meetings at the end of our mourning.” He blots his list and thinks.

Crowley returns to his art. His eyes are drowsy and he yawns.

Aziraphale thinks of his partner’s hard life and an idea begins to form. He looks over his shoulder at Crowley. “How would you feel about some diplomatic work?”

Crowley gives a loud, amused laugh. “Me? I put my foot in my mouth at least once an hour.”

“Yes, and it’s very charming.”

“If you say so.”

“I was just thinking of how bad things are in the West country, yet you say that poverty in the South is beyond what I saw.”

Crowley sits up and slides his legs from the arm of the chair onto the floor. “It’s bad, angel. There’s no money for everyone to farm, and fishing isn’t a way to survive anymore. I always knew we were lucky to be brought up in a House. I thought we had it easy. When I got here I saw just how behind we are. Even just the marketplace! The items for sale and the way people moved—you can’t begin to imagine how different it is, angel.”

Aziraphale pulls his glasses off his nose and sets them on the desk. “Would you be interested in some sort of campaign to improve things to the South?”

"In what way? I can’t undo overfishing and can’t hand out money.”

Aziraphale turns in his chair and Crowley marks his sketch page with his pencil and closes the book. He gives his full attention to the prince. Aziraphale considers his words carefully.

“I was very surprised about how you reacted to the toilet situation. I mean, when you first arrived here.” Crowley smirks. He clearly remembers. “Is that something we could focus on there? Just moving away from chamber pots and using a clean water system has reduced cholera here in the capital.” Aziraphale’s eyes wander to his bookshelves. Ideas lay there, waiting for discovery. Some of them might solve their problems.

“I don’t know, Aziraphale, it’s certainly a problem, but so is having enough to eat.” He shrugs. “And some of the folks, like the vintners, are doing just fine and would only be interested as something to show off.”

Aziraphale gives a longing look at some of those new texts. “We could explore it if you’re willing.”

“I’m just a companion, angel,” he says softly. “I’ll help if I can, but—“

“—do not sell yourself short. I will not stand for it. You are more clever than you let yourself believe you are. You can and will do good for our people.” He stands and joins Crowley at his chair. He touches his lover under the chin and brushes at his stubble.

“You’re my helpmate.”

Crowley brings Aziraphale’s fingers to his mouth and kisses them. “That I am. And we will do what we can for our people, my prince.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They spend their late afternoon and evening in the library. Aziraphale researches and reads, while Crowley doodles. Suddenly, Crowley leaps up as if he cannot sit still any longer.

“I think I know where Michael is,” he declares.

Aziraphale removes his glasses and stares at Crowley.

“She’ll have wanted to be close to the battle, right? Your brother commanded the attack from inside the castle and used messengers—“

“—of course, but Gabriel isn’t a warrior. He was just monitoring, he never gave orders. He simply agreed or disagreed.”

Crowley waves this off. “Fine, but Michael wouldn’t run things like that. She’s like you. You said so yourself, you refuse to send people into war and not go yourself. You said that you’ve met her on the battlefield before.”

Aziraphale taps his foot on the ground. “Indeed. We’ve locked swords. What in the world does this have to do with anything?”

“You didn’t see her on the ships. You didn’t capture her. That means she had to be close by—close enough to see the battle and be able to direct her troops. But she also fell for your fake reinforcements—“

“—the leak. Oh, dear gods, she was in the Keep.”

The moment the idea takes hold it makes complete sense. She learned of Aziraphale’s fake plans because she’d heard them in the garrison from the troops.

“She entered with my troops from the East.”

Crowley bounces on the balls of his feet. “It would have been easy to arrive with Device’s platoon. Then, she could have sent word to attack the market—“

“—She could have seen you leave.”

“We’re lucky she didn’t send someone to follow us,” Crowley muses. His voice hisses when he continues. “Her stupidity killed innocent people. There were kids in those markets.”

Aziraphale grabs him and tugs him close. “You were innocent too. Don’t you dare suggest that you would have been a safer target.”

Crowley kisses the crown of the prince’s head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean that her assumption was brutal. She’s not playing politely. Sable said this was personal: she’s going to target you, angel.”

Aziraphale tightens his hold on his consort. “Which means you’re her biggest target. And she knows it, if she were in the castle when I thought you were dead… she knows my weakness.”

Crowley’s voice is warm and gentle. “You are the furthest thing from weak, my love.”

Aziraphale squeezes him and moves back to his list. He adds “Crowley to armory”. The companion looks over his shoulder.

“Are you going to make me carry a shield at all times?” he jokes, but there’s a sense of foreboding there.

“A dagger, at least.” His palm presses down into the desk as he turns to face Crowley. “You’re a knight now, dearest, you’re going to need to look the part. It won’t hurt if it helps you stay safe.”

Crowley looks at him levelly. “She’s not here now. You know she went to ground the moment you attacked her ships on a funeral pyre.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, something happened before then. At first, during the battle, it was as if she knew exactly what we were going to do as we decided it. She had to have been in or very near the War Room. But something changed. She couldn’t react to my message to Gabriel about the pyre.”

“There’s no way she was in the War Room,” Crowley argues, shaking his head. “Beelze said it was just her, the kids, and advisors in with the King.”

Aziraphale freezes. “What kids?”

Crowley stares at him. “No. No, it wasn’t the kids. They took a nap and read a book with Beelze. They weren’t involved, angel.”

A slippery feeling, like that when he has to challenge those under his command, sinks into him. “What kids, Crowley?”

Crowley glares. “The same ones who carried the lantern for your mother’s funeral. But I’m telling you, they were with Beelze in the other room. They even said that they closed the door because they were having a row with Gabriel.”

“Never the less,” Aziraphale sniffs, “we will talk to the children.”

“And,” Crowley sneers, angry and spitting like a cat, “if they were involved? What? You’ll kill them? You can’t kill kids!”

Aziraphale looks away and studies the objects on his desk. “I believe that Michael had a direct line to the War Room and its directives. I will find out who helped her.” He tries to say this without passion, but, instead, the words come out flat and resolute.

Crowley storms out of the library, rattling the glass French doors as he goes. Aziraphale sinks into his desk chair and considers his plans. He has six days left in mourning. These are to be spent only with immediate family. The customs demand no speaking to outsiders or playing music. There is to be no dancing or feasting. Work and occupation should only be done if necessary. It is a time for grief.

The prince selects a new sheet of cream parchment and begins a letter to the King.

The grieving period is customary, but protecting his brother and his crown is duty.

Night draws in and Aziraphale works on. His note is delivered to the King (by a very concerned servant who tried to argue). Gabriel writes back.

Once it becomes apparent that he is working and so it the king, Crowley begins to play scales on his harp. Aziraphale grits his teeth and jumps to his feet.

“My dear,” he says through clenched teeth, “no music during the mourning period. Remember?”

Crowley looks up at him through sunglasses. It makes Aziraphale’s heart clench. The companion does not tend to hide his eyes from his partner unless they’re outside in the sun or among the court.

“My dear,” Crowley mocks, using some attempt at Aziraphale’s voice and accent, “no working during the mourning period.” He rocks the harp forward an inch on his shoulder.

Aziraphale braces his hands on his hips. “It is completely different. This is for the safety of the King, the land, and if you’ve forgotten, yourself! You are going to be Michael’s largest target to get to me!”

Crowley plucks an F and adjusts four fingers on the strings. “So she can have six days head start, for someone’s sake! You’ve lost your mother and two brothers, angel! You need to deal with that. You need this time to grieve.” He uses his palm to still the strings as he says this.

Aziraphale marches toward him only to stop halfway and march back toward the library, “Then I had better focus, hadn’t I? Or I’ll have no brothers and no lover!”

He slams the doors behind him and stands breathing heavily inside the library. Crowley apparently counts to ten, then begins his scales again. Aziraphale clenches his fists and then rockets back out in the sitting area, furious.

“Crowley! No music!” Crowley strikes a discordant note and slams the harp up off his shoulder and back onto its base.

His snarls, low like a hissing snake. “I don’t do well with hypocrites, Prince Aziraphale. No matter how well they explain their logic.”

“This isn’t logic. This is strategy.”

“Oh yes,” Crowley agrees, his sunglasses flashing, “I remember how you said that on the battlefield those are not one and the same. You know what I also know to be true, angel?” The pet name is twisted cruelly for the first time ever and Aziraphale is smacked by it.

“That you actually love the battlefield. You don’t want peace; you want the challenge of war. Nothing will get in your way either—you’d ignore all your feelings forever if you could get the challenge of taking on Michael. She’s your equal, right? Both of you are so intelligent that you’re foolish about what actually matters! It’s not just her with a personal vendetta. You want to bring her down again!”

“That’s enough!” Aziraphale states, but Crowley doesn’t back down.

“She lost it all, Aziraphale! Her kingdom is gone and her sister is dead—“

“—and whose fault is that?” Aziraphale shouts.

Crowley is silent, but his face is still flushed with anger.

“If you stay after her,” Crowley finally adds, his voice quiet but raging, “then you’ll lose everything too.”

He turns on his heel and grabs a bottle of wine from the rack. He snatches up a corkscrew and stalks with long, angry strides out toward the balcony. Aziraphale watches his back and grinds his teeth.

“If you’re not careful,” he finally states, aiming for calm but sounding vindictive, “you’ll have lost everything too. And you’ll be back where you started.”

Crowley falters mid-step. He pauses there in the doorway but speaks into the night.

“I’ve done with less, Your Highness. I could make it on the streets if I had to.” He clears his throat and it sounds raw. “I’d still be yours, even if you sent me away.”

Then he steps out into the night and Aziraphale lets him go. He has work to do. And so hours pass.

In his bachelorhood, Aziraphale frequently slept on his books and notes. Since his fortieth birthday, however, he’s either slept at Crowley’s side or wishing he were there. Tonight, he dozes at his desk with his head pillowed on his books.

Crowley wakes him by shaking his shoulder. He blinks blearily and pulls his spectacles off his nose.

“Come to bed, angel,” Crowley says, his voice slurred with wine. He doesn’t wait for the prince, he just stumbles away to their bed. Anger dances at the edges of his consciousness, but he cannot remember the reason.

He stands, stretches, and follows. The bedroom dining table is littered with empty bottles. Aziraphale stares at them and then passes the rice paper room shades. Crowley lays face down on the top of the bed with the insect netting under his body. He’s already snoring.

Aziraphale wipes his face with his hand then starts untangling his consort from his drunken prison.

“It’s all good, angel,” Crowley slurs as Aziraphale pulls him onto the bed properly.

“I’m not sure about that, dear boy,” he replies as Crowley twines around him with wine-loosened limbs. Aziraphale pulls off Crowley’s sunglasses and starts when he sees evidence of tear-swollen eyes. “Oh darling,” he whispers.

“You smell good,” Crowley decides and then promptly falls back asleep.

Aziraphale lays down and brings his clingy companion with him. “We’ll talk in the morning, I suppose,” he decides. Crowley smacks his lips in reply.

The morning brings a hangover for Crowley and a sour mood for Aziraphale. They sit on their private bedroom-adjacent balcony and sip coffee and tea in silence. Crowley broods and grimaces from behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale nervously fidgets with his teacup.

“I need to apologize about last night,” he begins. Crowley waves it off.

“No need. We were angry. We said things, it happens.” He’s gruff and looking green.

“Only, I believe there was more than grain of truth to what we said.” He takes an anxious sip of tea. “Do you really believe that I would leave you to go challenge Michael?”

Crowley slips his glasses down his nose to peer over them at Aziraphale. “Yes.” He says it matter-of-factly, but then continues quickly when he sees the prince’s face. “You would do that was ‘right’ and feel you were duty-bound to do it. That said, you do enjoy the challenge of Michael. She’s your Professor Moriarty.” He groans when his finishes and touches his forehead.

Aziraphale disagrees and shakes his head. “Absolutely not the truth. I want her gone so I can retire.”

Crowley sinks back in his chair and resettles his sunglasses. He speaks slowly as if the volume and rate of his speech will make him sick. It might.

“Sure, I know you do, angel. But you couldn’t stay still for an entire day yesterday—I mean, outside of fucking me. That was an exception, obviously. I’m just saying that I’m not sure you could handle six days without something to plan. You’re a good soldier and you enjoy it,” he states and tries a slow sip of coffee.

Aziraphale stares into his tea and then up into the reflections on Crowley’s dark lenses. “I want to keep you safe.”

Crowley slumps in his chair. “You do, angel. But you need to grieve, Aziraphale. Keeping all that emotion bottled up is clouding your judgment.”

Aziraphale considers his words. Suddenly, the companion jumps up and runs for their ensuite. Apparently, three bottles of wine on an empty stomach is too much. He stands slowly and pours a glass of water for Crowley then waits for him to quit retching. Once he’s finished, Aziraphale enters and offers him a cup of water.

The companion swishes and spits then drinks the rest down. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You’ve got several hours of feeling rotten ahead of you.”

Crowley groans and balls up on the floor. “At least I did this to myself. I used to hate being hungover or strung out when I didn’t want to do either the night before.” He pulls his sunglasses off and throws his arm over his eyes instead. “I was such a bastard last night, Aziraphale. I won’t leave you. You won’t be alone.”

Aziraphale feels a pang in his chest and sinks down to the floor at Crowley’s side.

“You weren’t wrong, my dear. I could easily end up like Michael if I let this obsession fester.”

A yellow eye peeks out from under Crowley’s arm. “So you’ll leave it alone?”

“I will not work anymore during this mourning period,” he decides. Crowley tucks his face back under his arm and awkwardly pats Aziraphale’s leg with his other hand.

“It’s a start,” he agrees.

In the coming days, he reads, naps, and watches Crowley. A lifetime of entertaining others has left the companion with a wide skill set. He seems determined to find which of these he actually enjoys and which he does not.

It’s not a traditional mourning. No clothing is torn and so tears shed. Instead, it’s peaceful and quiet. They meet and make love around their rooms like the newlyweds they are. Aziraphale reads aloud and Crowley adds colorful commentary. The courtesan curses over his loom but produces some of the most beautiful textile weaving that the prince has ever seen. He learns to duck when Crowley chucks the shuttle in frustration. He also learns to leave the room when Crowley recollects said shuttle and must rewind the wool. It’s much easier to avoid the abuse that the companion spews at anyone and everything in his eyesight.

At the end of their seven day mourning period, they dress in purple robes. Crowley paints on mourning chalk and they rejoin the court. Beelze has a warm glow about them and Aziraphale wants to shout with joy. It’s one thing to know that Béḃinn promised a child, but it’s another to see it begin. Gabriel is leaner than before, his eyes speak to long nights in prayer. Aziraphale feels slightly guilty for not spending his time the same. Crowley takes his hand and squeezes it.

They follow the King and his consort to the grand dining table and enjoy the first fest that breaks their mourning period. Messengers gather to hand out intel and letters, but the King does not call them near. Instead, he gives a lingering look to Beelze, then turns a satisfied smile to Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Thank you, friends, for being at my side.” He says just for them to hear. If the court tries to lean in to hear his words, then they ignore them. “I am grateful that you are my support and counsel. I do not fear what comes before us because we are united.”

Crowley leans on Aziraphale’s arm until he wraps this arm around his shoulders. By the candlelight, the four share warm looks as if they’re the only ones in the room.


	23. Thirty-Nine Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this madness and enjoying it. I hope you enjoyed the break from reality. I have some ideas for the sequel, if you're interested! ;)
> 
> Thanks again,  
> -B

Prince Warlock looks like a raisin. No one will say so, but Beelze knows it. All these years of wanting a child and they give birth to a wrinkled, red-skinned, old grape with a head full of dark hair.

Gabriel rocks the white-blanket-bound bundle and whispers adoringly to the child. Beelze promptly bursts into noisy tears.

“At least he likes grapes!” they sob.

Aziraphale pats them uneasily on the shoulder. “There, there, dear Prince, it’s just the hormones.”

Gabriel looks up from his son and frowns. “Bee, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry, Sire! I gave you a grape!” they sob, then hiccup. Gabriel twists around in alarm, looking all around for someone to give the baby to. Crowley takes the child in his arms. The King rushes to Beelze’s side and gathers them into his chest.

“I love grapes, just like you said, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with grapes!” he babbles, before getting a sharp look from his brother. He seems to get a grip on himself. “He’s perfect, sweetheart. Bee, you have given me a son. A perfect son.”

Beelze presses their snotty face into his chest and sniffles. “I hurt,” they lament and then begin to cry again.

“Oh, Bee, my love, you did so well. I know, let me get you some ice or whiskey? Or maybe a bath?” He lists off other things, but Beelze tunes him out. The fact that he’s offering is really all they need right now.

Their body does bloody hurt though. “Whiskey?” they ask hopefully.

“Yep, of course, right away!” the King yelps and leaps off the bed to find the decanter.

At the foot of the bed, Crowley sings to their little newborn raisin. His eyes are uncovered with his sunglasses pushed up into his hair to better see the tiny prince.

“So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,

So away to the sea I’m bound, my love,

Away to the sea, I’ll come back again.

‘Fore summer has broken, I’ll be back, my love,” he sings.

“Oh, my darling, don’t sing him something so sad,” Aziraphale repremands. Crowley continues to hum but then looks up.

His eyes are full of love and amazement. “He doesn’t mind.”He turns to his sibling just as Gabriel appears with the alcohol. “He’s so tiny, Beelze.” He looks back down to the swaddled bundle and touches his nephew’s nose.

The baby gives a little squeak and then a grunt. Crowley grins up at Aziraphale and then returns his focus to the baby. He hums that song that the prince swore was too sad. Aziraphale stands behind Crowley. He wraps his arms around his companion’s waist and props his chin on his shoulder.

“Hello, Warlock,” he greets. “I’m your uncle.”

“He’s the softie,” Crowley conspires at a whisper. The baby gives a little click. “And he always has sweets. Even if he says he doesn’t, he does.”

Aziraphale pinches Crowley’s middle and he yelps. “And your Uncle Crowley lies to get me into trouble.” He reaches down and brushes a finger across the baby’s cheek. “Welcome to the world, little one.”

On the bed, Beelze downs their whiskey and lays back onto the mattress with a groan. The midwife bustles in with a towel full of ice. Beelze almost fusses until she lifts the duvet and settles the soothing cool between their legs.

“I can’t decide if that’s good or awful,” they admit after a few moments. Gabriel strokes back their hair from their forehead and caresses their cheekbones with his thumbs.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, concern in his purple eyes.

The baby gives a squawk and Crowley shushes him.

“Honestly? Like I just shoved a baby the size of a cannonball—“

“So, that was a stupid question,” Gabriel decides and presses a kiss to their forehead. “Anything I can get for you?”

“You can stab anyone who tries to come near me with that damn caudle cup again,” they snark, then yawn.

“Your Highness,” the midwife interrupts, “you’ve lost blood in delivery—“

Both Crowley and Gabriel sputter or interrupt with noises that sound like panic. The midwife waves at them both and speaks overtop them.

“—and you’ll continue to bleed for some days yet. You need to eat and sleep now.” She motions for the other midwife to bring forward a tray with soup on it. Beelze stares at it suspiciously.

“Is that caudle?” they ask, a little lisp entering the words.

“No, m’lord.”

“Good thing,” they admit and begin to eat. The baby makes some clucking noises like he’s waking up, but Crowley soothes him. Aziraphale sits on the foot of the bed, entranced watching Crowley with the child.

“He does love babies,” Beelze says, aiming the comment at the prince. “Maybe if you keep practicing you can get him up the duff.”

“Hardy har har har,” Crowley sniffs. “Great joke. I have _never_ heard that one before.”

Gabriel touches their shoulder and encourages them to keep eating. He pours them a glass of water and makes them drink that too. Finished, they push the tray away and hold out their arms to their brother.

“Lemme have my raisin.”

Crowley glares at them, then speaks to the infant. “Ignore them, they were dropped as a child.”

He walks closer to the bed, still whispering loudly enough that everyone can hear, but directed at Warlock. “I wouldn’t worry though, they raised me and I turned out just fine.” He stops at Beelze’s side and smiles at them. “They’re a good family to have. You’re lucky, little one.”

He hands the baby over, then leans onto the bed and presses a kiss to Beelze’s cheek. “Thank you for everything,” he whispers.

Beelze bursts into tears, which sets the baby off, which makes their breasts start leaking.

“Fuck you, Crowley, and your little stupid snake dick,” they sob as they pull their tunic open to feed the little prince.

Crowley gapes in alarm, then hurries to Aziraphale and digs through his assorted robe pockets and steals his handkerchief.

“Well, now wait, Crowley!” he tries to argue, but Crowley is already climbing onto the bed to settle at Beelze’s hip. He holds out the handkerchief, but Beelze has no free hands to take it, so he wipes their face and nose.

“All better,” he decides, then wipes a few more stray tears.

Gabriel is staring, awed again, at the baby who is considering latching on to Beelze’s nipple. They have a premonition that he may spend most of his time amazed but not really helping, in the coming months.

The midwife frets, “Wait, I’ll get the wet nurse!”

Crowley glares at her. “No, you won’t.” He touches the baby of the tiny prince's head. "He's nearly got it."

The midwife is shocked still. “But, but, the prince consort shouldn’t be—“

Beelze sniffs and leans into their brother. “You heard Lord Crowley. I don’t need a wet nurse.”

The midwife opens and closes her mouth. Then she struggles to find a way to help guide the new parent with their baby, while not being in the King’s way or Crowley’s. At last, the baby figures it out and Beelze nearly weeps with gratitude.

The second midwife whispers to the first. “These Southern whores are—“

Whatever they’re going to finish with is lost to Aziraphale bodily chases them from the room.

“How dare you!" he snaps, primly. "There is no place for such language in our home. Especially around the Crown Prince--and a baby at that! Shame on you! _And_ to speak of the Prince Consort and _my_ Crowley that way, be glad I don’t send you to the tower!”

The midwives are clucking and fretting, but the prince slams the door shut behind them. Crowley kisses Beelze’s cheek again and slides off the bed.

“Forgive me, Sires,” he gives a silly, overdramatic bow, “but his outrage is the most attractive thing on the planet. I’ll be taking him to bed and ravaging him now. Enjoy some family time.”

Crowley saunters over to Aziraphale with swaying hips. He grabs the prince by the arm and drags him out. Aziraphale gives a besotted little finger-wiggling wave over his shoulder just as the door swings shut behind him.

Gabriel sighs and settles on the pillows next to his partner. Their prince and heir nurses between them making small gulping noises. Beelze looks over to their king and lover.

“Are you pleased?” they ask, shyly.

“My sweetheart,” he whispers as he cups their chin, “you are all that I have wished for. Every day you make me happier than I ever thought I could be. Now, my sweet, sweet Bee, you’ve made me a father. I can never repay you for this gift.”

They kiss, slow and sweet, while Warlock grunts and suckles. And who could have foretold of the honor that two nobody Southern companions could bring to the House of Acheron? Beelze kisses their fingers and brushes them to their sigil. Gabriel presses his lips to their sigil immediately after.

And then, Beelze blesses the child, “It is with the blessings of Béḃinn that we welcome you, my sweet son, to our home and our family. We love you.”

The fire crackles and the sea roars. The breeze that blows in from the waves smells of salt and honeysuckle. Somewhere, Beelze knows that Béḃinn is laughing with joy.


End file.
